Twelve Days
by My Dear Professor McGonagall
Summary: The first Christmas was far from easy.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome, babies!

Here we have the Twelve Days of Christmas, Weasley style. It's the first one after the war (1998), so it may not always be pretty, but I think we all know how it'll end. :) Love you all and the happiest of holidays to everybody!

Lucy

* * *

One

* * *

"Are you two off for the week?" asked Kingsley without turning around. He closed his office door, briefcase in hand, and turned to grin at Ron and Harry, who had been lying in wait for him.

"We're going to my parents' for Christmas," Ron told him.

"I know, I was invited," Kingsley chuckled as the three of them walked towards the lifts. "I'm afraid I can't make it—"

"Plans, Minister?" Harry asked, and Kingsley winked.

"Maybe so."

Harry and Ron grinned at each other; it was no secret that Kingsley and Hestia Jones had been seeing quite a lot of each other since she had returned from Scotland, where the Dursleys had been hidden. Now that they no longer needed protection, Hestia had returned to temporarily take over the job as Head of the Auror Department, until Kingsley could step down as Minister. Then Hestia would return to active duty as an Auror.

"How did your midterm evaluations go, gentlemen?" Kingsley asked, pressing the button to call the lifts. The waiting area was only half full; most people had gone home by this hour.

Harry and Ron shared a look. "Er," said Harry, "We were…um, wondering the same thing, sir." Ron nodded quickly.

Kingsley laughed. "Well, it's not really part of my job to go through the Auror Office's recruitment files anymore, is it? I'm sure you'll hear back on the first of January, with your classmates."

"Oh," said Harry, and he knew that his own disappointment was mirrored on Ron's face. "Right—well, we just thought, since, you know, you're coming back in a few months, that maybe you'd had the chance—but it's no problem." He grinned, and Kingsley chuckled.

The lift doors jangled open, and all three of them entered. Kingsley pressed the button for the Atrium. "I must say, Harry," he said thoughtfully, I've never thought you to be one for pulling strings."

Harry stared at him. "N-no," he said quickly. "No, Kingsley—Minister, I didn't mean—" But then he saw that Kingsley was shaking with silent laughter, and Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, great—"

"Bloody hell," Ron said, elbowing Harry in the ribs and Kingsley reached into his briefcase.

"You both performed admirably," he said, beaming as he presented each of them with a violet-ribboned scroll, "but you didn't hear it from me, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, grinning.

Ron had already torn open his scroll and was scanning it hungrily. "Blimey," he murmured, as the elevator clunked to a halt in the Atrium. Harry frowned, moving to take a look at his scores—

"Happy Christmas, gentlemen," said Kingsley, giving them both another huge wink and stepping out of the lift.

"Ron—is that—?" Harry stammered, pointing at one mark.

Ron gaped at the parchment. "I think—"

Harry tore open his scroll.

FIRST TERM AUROR TRAINING

MIDSEASON EVALUATION

Marks out of 120

Harry James Potter

Concealment and Disguise: 100

Stealth and Tracking: 80

Basic Potions: 80

Evasion Technique: 110

Spellwork: 110

Basic Duels: 120

Just like on Ron's, there was a hand-scribbled note from Hestia taped below the marks: _Great work, Harry!_

"Did you—?" Ron asked excitedly. He gave a jubilant yell, startling many of the Ministry workers queuing by the fireplaces to Floor home. "We did it, mate! Perfect scores on dueling!"

Harry grinned, feeling a little as though he had been struck over the head by something very heavy.

"Wait'll Hermione hears!" Ron continued, already neatly sealing his scroll with his wand. "We've passed into the second half of the term!"

"This is…this is great," Harry said, still gazing down at this parchment in shock.

"C'mon, let's get a drink and celebrate," Ron said, slinging an arm around his neck, and together, they joined a queue for the nearest fireplace.

* * *

"What are you grinning at?" Percy asked, standing at the foot of the hospital bed. Lucy looked up from her letter, startled, and smiled at him.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" she demanded, setting the note aside and holding her arms open for a hug.

"Excuse me, but someone failed to mention they were back in St. Mungo's," Percy told her sternly.

Lucy waved a hand; she was only sixteen years old—barely younger than Ginny—but she was very independent and used to taking care of herself. "My cousin's been looking after me," she said. "I knew you'd be busy at work. Oh, speaking of which—" She handed him the letter she had been reading and adjusted her position in the bed, wincing as her legs moved.

"What's this?" Percy asked, frowning.

"My cousin," said Lucy. "She's going to start work in the Minister's office in January. Her name's Audrey, I think you'd really like—"

"Oh," Percy said, feeling his smile fade. "Right. Well, that's great."

She frowned slightly. "Are you all right?"

He nodded quickly and returned the letter. "How are you feeling? Why did you have to come back?"

Lucy rolled her eyes. "Something or other," she said, and Percy sensed that that would be all he got out of her. Lucy, like many others, had been severely injured at the end of the war, six months previously, and was still recovering from breaking both of her legs and several other bones. "I feel fine, though. I should be out by the end of the week. My cousin and I will probably have Christmas with a lot of her friends."

"Good," Percy said, patting her arm.

"What are your family doing for Christmas?" she asked.

Percy blinked. "We'll—we'll have dinner. At my parents' house." Lucy watched him closely without speaking. "Probably nothing too special. My sister will be home from school."

"It's going to be your first," Lucy said softly, and Percy looked away. "Your first holiday without your brother." He said nothing but stared at another patient a few beds away, who was smoking faintly around the collar. "Percy, don't be like that," she said. "Percy."

He looked at her, suddenly irritated; he wished he hadn't come to visit.

"If you think I'm annoying, you should wait until you meet Audrey," Lucy quipped, accurately reading his expression in an instant. "All I'm saying is that I know it hurts, and I know it probably won't be fun for you—"

"That's putting it rather mildly—"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Percy!" Lucy snapped, drawing the curious attention of several people in the ward. "I know! I know it all, all right? You were the last one to see him alive—he was with you, he was your responsibility. I know everything you've been saying about it for six months." She lowered her voice, taking his hand gently. Percy did not pull away, but only because he knew it would hurt her feelings. "You weren't the only one to see awful things—to have awful things happen to you. And at a certain point, you've got to accept that you had nothing to do with his death. It's terrible—but I think you've spent more time with me than with your own family, Percy, and that's not right—"

"You—"

"I've been in and out of St. Mungo's, yes, how terribly interesting," Lucy interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Meanwhile, your family is about to have a really difficult holiday, a time when they should be happy, and they're going to want you there to make it even that much better." Percy scowled. "You know I'm right."

Finally, he nodded, and Lucy smiled. She gave a sigh and patted his shoulder. "It'll be all right, Percy. I know it." He nodded again, not willing to believe her. "I need to sleep a bit," she said gently. "Will you come back before the week's over?"

Percy rose, lifting a half-smile onto his face. "Sure."

Lucy settled back on her pillows. "See you soon."

* * *

"Where've you been?"

"Stopped for a drink, mate," Ron said, squeezing in the door of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, which was overcrowded with Christmastime shoppers, "With Harry—lost track of the time. I got my scores back on—"

"Get your robes on and start restocking the shelves," George told him as he rang up an impatient-looking customer.

Ron hurried to the back room and changed quickly. As he did so, another recently hired employee called Deirdre came back to pull a box of trick wands off the shelf. She raised her eyebrows at Ron as she left and panted, "He's in rare form today."

Ron ground his teeth, unable to answer her sharply before the door swung shut. Though it had been a very difficult summer for George, the presence of Angelina Johnson in his life had improved his demeanor exponentially. Deirdre, Ron thought, had no idea what she was talking about, nor how much she should appreciate having even a sour-tempered George for a boss. He thought with a shudder of the empty shell that had existed only a few months earlier, and, not for the first time, appreciated Angelina.

Ron tied his shoelace and hurried out into the main store with armfuls of boxes, prepared to fill the shelves with Skiving Snackboxes and a wide variety of Decoy Detonators. When he had done so, and it seemed that the stores would hold, Ron hurried up to the second level, where George was explaining the effects of a Wonderwitch product to an older witch who was probably buying it for her daughter.

"They're perfectly safe, ma'am, I test all the products myself—"

"Er—sorry," Ron said, stepping up for a moment and giving the witch a smile. "Where d'you want me, George?"

"I'd try the register," George said briskly without looking at him.

Ron, a little put off, went downstairs again and encountered a full queue of customers, clamoring to finish their day's shopping. "All right!" he shouted, squeezing his way past them to the register. The grumpy-looking witch at the front of the line had an entire array of products laid out on the counter, and Ron gave her what he hoped was a winning smile. "How can I help you?"

It took the better part of four hours to assist all of the customers who came in, even this late in the day, and so it was not until almost a half hour after closing time that Ron was able to lock the front doors and breathe a sigh of relaxation.

"Good night, Ron," said a voice, and he looked up just in time to see Deirdre smile at him. "Have a nice evening."

"You too," Ron said, and she turned on the spot. With a small pop, she was gone.

Ron yawned widely and stretched, reaching into his pocket for the Deluminator. He clicked it once, and the lights throughout the shop went out, shooting directly into the device. He then flicked his wand, lowering the shades in the windows, and headed for the back staircase that led to George's flat. He got to the door and knocked; it was locked. "George?" he called, listening for a response. "George, I'm locking up!"

"Fine. Night," called George's voice from within. He sounded stuffed-up, as though he had a cold.

Ron frowned. "I'm on my way to pick up food from the Leaky Cauldron—d'you want to come along?"

"M'busy."

"Oh, no," he muttered. He raised a fist and pounded on the door. "George. George, open up."

"Busy, Ron."

"You've got three seconds, and then I'm blasting this door in—"

"Ron!"

Ron raised his wand. "One—"

"Bugger off!"

"Two—"

The door swung open, and George, his eyes rimmed with red and looking positively furious, stood glaring up at Ron, who had, over the last summer, grown taller than him. Ron recoiled at the smell of stale firewhisky.

"Ah, George," he groaned. "C'mon, mate—is this why you were being such a—"

"Go'way," George snapped. "Go to Grimmauld Place. M'fine." He marched over to the table, where a bottle of firewhisky sat beside piles of parchment, and sat down to pour himself a glass. "I've got work to do."

"No, I won't," Ron said, though he wasn't entirely sure where this resolve was coming from. He stepped inside the flat, and he could see into the only bedroom—though George never slept there, but rather on the sofa—where two unmade beds were just visible through the door. "Come on—you—you said you were over this—what about Angelina?"

He had said the wrong thing. George buried his face in his hands for a moment, clearly trying to keep a hold on his temper. Ron stammered, "I—I didn't mean—I didn't mean you were over—not—I mean, come on, none of us—I just—"

"Angelina and I had a fight," George answered, so quietly that Ron fell immediately silent.

"You—you did?"

He nodded, still not removing his hands from his face. "Bloody wonderful time for it."

"I—look, George," Ron said, feeling that the danger had passed and sitting down beside him at the table. "How bad could it have been? I mean—you two—you argue a lot—"

George snorted and looked at Ron at last. "Sort of the point, isn't it?" he asked. "We fight too much. We called it off. No problem."

"'Called it off?'" Ron repeated. "What are you talking about?"

"I ditched her," George said with a shrug, staring fiercely down at a bill and making a note on it.

"You ditched her?"

"Will you quit repeating everything I say?" George retorted, slamming his empty glass down on the table. "I ditched her. She ditched me. It doesn't matter—she had every right to not want me around anymore."

"Wait—you ditched her or she ditched you?" Ron asked. "Because that matters, George, it—"

"No, Ron, it doesn't," he snapped. "Now—will you just get going so I can get these bills done before the shipments come tomorrow? I have to get up at four to meet them."

There was a ringing finality in these words. Ron, his insides twisting painfully, stared at his brother's profile as he gazed down at the parchment.

"All right. You know where I am, though, if—"

"Bye, Ron."

Ron left, feeling thoroughly disconcerted. When he arrived home, he talked Harry into having a game of chess over dinner in the extremely clean parlor of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Kreacher lived in the house during the summer, and spent the occasional weekend on a cleaning visit from Hogwarts, where there was more work for him to do. As they ate, Ron explained to Harry his conversation with George, starting with his foul mood and then continuing on to his words about Angelina.

"I mean…that's weird, right?" Ron asked, as Harry prodded his knight forward and it began beating up one of Ron's pawns. "I'm not mad?"

"Well, like you said," Harry told him, "They fight a lot. Maybe they haven't ditched each other, maybe—" He broke off, looking uncomfortable, and Ron knew why. Fred's absence seemed more powerful when they—Harry, Hermione, Ron's own family, and anybody else who happened to stumble across the topic—were actively avoiding it.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say to Deirdre and Verity and the others," he mumbled, frowning at the chessboard. "He hasn't been like this in a while…I'm not sure how much of does have to do with Fred."

Harry's expression hardened, and he looked seriously up at Ron, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You don't owe them any explanations. None of you do," he said firmly.

Ron was quiet for a minute, and he pushed his queen forward; she decapitated Harry's knight. "I just want it to make sense to me."

* * *

Bill was reading the Daily Prophet—or trying to. He kept glancing at his watch, which sat on the bedside table, and then listening for noise on the staircase—the indication of Fleur's return from her mother's home. She had been feeling off-color all week, and did not trust the English Healers at St. Mungo's—at least not in this instance. She had Apparated to France immediately after dinner, insisting that she go alone, and Bill had been waiting for almost two hours for her to come home again.

At last, he heard her soft footfall on the landing. The door creaked open just as Bill sat up. Fleur, wrapped in her silvery-gray traveling cloak, looked inexpressibly exhausted. She walked in, removing the cloak, and sat down on the bed, taking his hands.

Bill's mouth felt dry as he watched her. "So…?"

She blinked once, her lip trembling only slightly, and shook her head. "No. Not zis time."

"Oh, Fleur," he said, pulling her into his arms. "I'm—I'm so sorry."

He felt her nod, and she drew a shuddering breath. "Eet is not your fault. Eet is no one's fault."

Bill hugged her tighter; he could not help but doubt her. "Pretty girl—maybe it's time I dropped by a Healer's—"

Fleur pulled back. Her eyes were full of tears, but she had narrowed them fiercely. "No. Zere is nothing wrong wiz us. Not me—or you, you understand?"

Bill swallowed hard. "I—I just don't want—"

"What?" Fleur asked.

"Remus…he always said there were going to be…differences…maybe—"

"Bill," she said sharply. "Do you know what my muzzer always tells 'er patients? Do you?"

Bill shook his head.

"Zey come to 'er, zey say, 'we are so anxious, we are so worried, we 'ave not yet 'ad a child,'" said Fleur. "And right away—my muzzer, she knows—she tells zem, ze problem is right before zem—zey are anxious."

"But, Fleur—"

"Bill, we 'ave 'ad…I do not know for certain, per'aps, but we 'ave 'ad ze most stressful first year of marriage zat anyone can 'ave, non?" she asked. "After all zat 'appened…Remus, and Tonks, and—" she paused, and her eyes filled with tears, just as Bill felt his own do the same.

Fleur leaned in and kissed him, very softly. "I am not worried. I—I am sad, yes, but I am not worried. And I do not want you to be worried, ma chére."

Bill wiped his eyes quickly and sniffed. "Okay. I'll try."

Fleur smiled. "Good."

* * *

Arthur yawned widely as he walked through the garden gate, happy to be home at last. It had been a long night—they had had a raid, their first one in months, on a piece of faulty information. Glad he was for his promotion, but Arthur had not had fun putting Memory Charms on some very startled Muggles who had been confused by the presence of a team of oddly-dressed men and women in their neighborhood.

He stretched, wondering, as he reached the kitchen door, why on earth Molly was still awake; the lights were all on. Then, an echoing clang rang out from within the house, and Arthur bolted forward, drawing his wand as he did so and making a huge racket as the door banged open. Molly gave a yelp of fright at the noise and spun on the spot—then she slipped in something and fell hard to the floor.

"Oh, Molly!" Arthur cried, hurrying to her aid. "Molly, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?"

"What on earth are you thinking, scaring me like that?" she demanded, as he helped her sit up. There was stew seeping all across the kitchen floor, and Molly had fallen in it. "I could've broken my neck!"

"I—I thought you might have been in trouble," Arthur said lamely, realizing now that it had been a foolish worry; it was not so terribly late.

"How gallant," Molly groaned, holding her back. "Ouch. Oh, I've—I think I—put my back out—"

"Do you need to go to St. Mungo's?" Arthur asked. "Perhaps—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Arthur, I'm fine," she replied. "Just help me get up—"

"Do you want to sit down, or lie on the sofa?"

"Lie down," she said, as she got delicately to her feet. Arthur helped her limp into the sitting room and got her settled on the couch.

"I'm so sorry, Molly," he said meekly, placing a pillow behind her head. "I just—I was worried—"

"I know, dear, I know," she answered, her eyes closed as she took a deep breath. Her hand closed on his. "I know."

It was true; Arthur had noticed, in the last six months, that he had become increasingly nervous, particularly where Molly was concerned. He was not sure it had anything to do with her behavior—which had resumed something like normalcy, if not the thing itself—but more with his own anxiety about his family. He went out of his way to run into Ron, Percy, and Harry at the Ministry. He ventured out to Diagon Alley several times a week just to glance in the window of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. He currently had a large portion of his bank account in his pocket from all of his trips to Gringotts. He found himself Apparating home in the middle of the day, with excuses about a forgotten something or other, just to see Molly.

And Molly knew. She would always be ready to tell him about Fleur dropping by, or to show him Ginny's latest letter from school, or to greet him at the door with the scarf he had—of course—just been coming back to get.

"Do you want me to see about a Healer?" Arthur asked her gently, smoothing her hair back. "Maybe someone can make a house call."

She chuckled in a pained sort of way. "And tell them what? It's just my back, Arthur, I'll be fine by the morning. Besides, it was my fault, too. I wasn't paying attention when I dropped that pot."

Arthur tightened his hold on her hand. "Have you eaten anything today, Molly?"

She opened her eyes at last. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I forgot. And then…well, your note said you'd be home late, so I just…I put it off."

"Molly, you can't _do_ that," he said, trying hard to disguise his exasperation; after all, he had just injured her, albeit accidentally. "It's not good for you—"

"Oh, believe me, I know," she said, wincing as she pulled herself up into a sitting position. She laid a hand over her eyes. "I've got a dreadful headache. Stupid thing for me to do."

Arthur leaned forward and kissed her temple gently. "I'm sorry, Mollywobbles." She smiled at him, her thin face exhausted. "Why don't I clean up the kitchen and find us something to eat?"

"I think I need to lie down properly," Molly said, wincing slightly as she sat up. "How would you feel about dinner in bed?"

Arthur grinned; even when she was in pain, Molly loved to tease him. "I'll bring up a tray and a potion for your back."

"What a wonderful husband I have," she beamed, and they kissed.


	2. Chapter 2

Two

* * *

Molly's back was not fine by the morning, and so Arthur sent a note into the Ministry, notifying his office that he would not be in that day.

Molly could not recall the last time she had felt so stupid; her brain seemed to be strewn in a million different ways. It wasn't as though she didn't know why. With the holidays so close, she knew, because she knew herself, that she would unconsciously try very hard to distract herself from the fact that one of her babies would not be coming home. But that had not stopped her from starting a sweater for Fred, the other day. She had not unraveled it, but kept it, half-begun, in the drawer beside her bed.

She didn't cry very much about Fred, anymore. Andromeda had told her something similar about Dora, not too long ago, but only recently had she been able to think about it seriously. In the beginning, it was all she could do—cry. The smell of Fred's favorite meal, the sight of some possession he'd left in the Burrow—even the occasional, unwarranted memory would crop up, and she would burst into tears while she was cooking dinner.

And oh, how she'd hated that. She had had no patience with herself—and, unfortunately, no patience with anyone else. Every day, the hole in her heart had seemed to grow, rather than heal, until finally, Ginny had practically dragged her out of bed and forced her to get moving again.

Ashamed, Molly threw herself into remembering Fred—immersing herself in everything she loved most about him—and it had helped. She visited his grave in the garden every morning at sunrise and every night at sunset. She talked to him. She told him about her day, about his brothers and sister, and she could picture him laughing. The wound of his loss was healing—yes, occasionally, it made her scatterbrained, or a little more emotional than she liked to be in front of Arthur, who was recovering in his own way and was so worried about her—but it was healing.

She occasionally had the impression that no one knew just how well she was healing. She could think of her son with love and happiness…and as difficult as she knew this first Christmas would be, as the first test of their family since his loss, she knew she would weather it, because she must.

But that morning that she woke up, with her back still sore, she was feeling considerably less optimistic. She had missed her morning talk with Fred, she could tell that by the daylight in the window—and she could smell the breakfast Arthur was cooking downstairs. It was plainly not going well.

Gingerly, trying not to move too sharply, Molly got herself out of bed, dressed, and limped downstairs.

"No, I can't today, Angus," Arthur was saying to the fireplace as she walked into the parlor. "Molly needs me around for the day."

"It's just, all these things we're finding in the Lestranges' vault are really…bad," Angus' head said from where it sat in the flames. He spotted Molly and nodded. "Hello, Mrs. Weasley."

"Good morning," she said in a voice that came out much more pained than she would have liked, as Arthur spun around. "Not that I was eavesdropping, Angus, but were you expecting something different when it came to the Lestranges?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Angus chuckled. "Right you are, Mrs. Weasley."

"Breakfast will be ready any minute," Arthur said, hurrying to help her.

"I can manage, Arthur, finish your call," she said, waving him away. She made it to the kitchen table and sat down, feeling oddly exhausted; she rubbed her neck, which hurt for some reason.

That couldn't be good. Molly frowned slightly, but at that moment, Arthur came into the kitchen, whistling a Christmas carol, and he kissed her on the cheek. She beamed at him and picked up the newspaper while he got her a plate of ham and eggs.

* * *

"That Ridgeback has got a bad temper," said Yuri, uttering a Russian swearword and scowling as Darya treated the burn on his leg.

"You should be glad she got your leg instead of your head," Darya told him, her brown eyes narrowed in concentration, and Charlie snorted.

"Don't worry, mate," he said, clapping Yuri on the shoulder as he stood and headed for the door of the first aid station. "Norberta's taken a few swipes at all of us—she's the least of your worries."

"Why do you insist on calling that dragon by that ridiculous name?" Darya demanded.

Charlie shrugged. "The groundskeeper at Hogwarts hatched her. He named her—well, he named her Norbert—thought she was a male."

"Hogwarts," Yuri grumbled, wincing as Darya wrapped on a bandage. "You English love that little school, don't you?"

Darya elbowed him. "And Durmstrang was better? I would have taken Hogwarts in a moment. At least the English are sensible about the Dark Arts—we had Grindelwald, and what do we do? Keep teaching it, like there is no problem."

"The English weren't prepared for what Voldemort had for them," Yuri retorted, and Charlie stiffened. "Our students are at least learning what they are up against—things got pretty bad for all of you until Harry Potter came back, no?" he asked of Charlie.

Darya caught his eye, looking horrorstruck and apologetic, but Charlie just lifted a smile on his face. "I'll see you all out there. Got to get back to the training team." He hurried out of the office and heard a thump. Darya had hit Yuri, and was now yelling at him in Russian. Charlie put on some speed; he did not care to hear.

"Right, you lot—lunch is over!" he called to a team of new recruits, who had been huddled together for warmth under a tree beside the preserve's fence. "Got two more dragons for you to meet, and then you're free to go on your holidays."

He brought them to meet two very old Ukrainian Ironbellies, who liked to hide themselves against the backdrops of the mountain range that ringed the preserve. After giving them extensive notes on handling and caring for the pair, Charlie released the recruits. He was stamping out for the day at the front desk when a soft hand closed on his.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have said anything."

Darya looked thoroughly ashamed of herself. Charlie tried to give her a smile.

"It's not your fault," he said. "I just—I'm not looking forward to the holiday."

"No?" she asked.

"Just—family stuff," he told her.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked. "When are you going home?"

"Monday," said Charlie. "And no, Darya, but thanks. I'll see you tomorrow." He turned to leave.

"Charlie," she called, and he stopped, his hand on the door. "Do you want to—get dinner?"

He paused for a moment. "I—I don't think I can—not tonight." Darya looked crestfallen. "Maybe later this week."

She smiled slightly. "I'll force you, if I have to."

Charlie grinned.

* * *

Harry knocked on the front door of Andromeda's house at exactly eleven o'clock. She opened the door, bouncing Teddy on her hip, and gave him a tired smile before pecking his cheek. "Good morning, dear."

"Morning," he said, hurrying inside at her behest so that the cold would not get in—Teddy, it seemed, was fonder of stuffing his socks in his mouth than wearing them on his feet, which protruded from his striped green pajamas. "How are you, Andromeda?"

"Very grateful you're here," she said, as Harry took Teddy from her. "I really need to get the shopping done and this one with his cold—well, I just don't want to take him out."

"No problem," Harry told her, grinning as he stopped Teddy from trying to swallow his sock. "Take all the time you need, we'll be fine."

"There's a bottle for his lunch in the kitchen, he should have that right away. And he can have Pepper-Up—about a spoonful—in another two hours," said Andromeda, picking up her purse and wrapping her cloak tightly over her robes. "He likes the way it tickles his ears, I think, so he's going to try and get the bottle from you."

Harry laughed. "Well, I'll stop that if I can."

Andromeda smiled at him. "Thank you, Harry," she said earnestly. "I—I know I don't always make it easy—"

Harry looked away, feeling rather uncomfortable. It was true, Andromeda had been extremely reluctant to let Harry spend more than a few minutes at a time with Teddy, at first, and she occasionally still demonstrated her worries—which were perfectly legitimate, to Harry's mind, if a little hurtful—with regards to his watching the baby alone.

Andromeda seemed to shake herself. "You're exactly what Remus and Dora would have wanted for him, Harry. You've been such a comfort to me. Thank you."

Harry blinked, looking at Teddy, who was babbling with his head rested on Harry's shoulder. "Thanks for…letting me be around."

"Well…be good," Andromeda cooed to Teddy, kissing his fat wrist. She walked to the door, and Harry followed her. "I'll try not to be too late. His nap is at three."

"Got it," Harry called. "Hey, Ted, can you wave at Gran?" He picked up Teddy's arm and waved it. "Bye, Gran!"

Andromeda beamed and turned on the spot just outside the fence, vanishing into thin air. Harry shut the door, holding Teddy close, picked up the bottle from the kitchen, and carried him upstairs to the nursery. It was Tonks's old bedroom, painted a sunshiney yellow and decorated with her Hufflepuff Quidditch pennants and flags—Harry and Ron had brought over the Gryffindor decorations from their own dormitory days to complement them. Teddy's crib stood in one corner, facing the wall of Hogwarts decorations.

Teddy burbled in Harry's arms, and Harry sat down on the soft carpet, placing the baby in front of him. He teetered back and forth, beaming. "What have you got, Ted?" Harry asked, picking up a block that changed color at his touch. "Look at this—this is new, isn't it?"

Teddy gave a squeal and wriggled forward, taking the block and promptly stuffing one corner in his mouth. He giggled as his hair—like the block—turned a brilliant violet. Harry laughed and took it from him. "Let's make a tower," he said, scooping up the rest of the set. "Here, look—" He put one block on the floor and began stacking them. He was only about four blocks high when Teddy decided to help—and, predictably, knocked the tower over.

His little face crinkled in worry, and Harry smiled. "It's okay, Teddy," he said, picking up a block and holding it out to him. "They're supposed to—"

And Teddy sneezed so hard that he bounced, and a little jet of steam issued out of his ears. He looked up at Harry, utterly stunned.

"You all right?" Harry asked, chuckling.

Teddy looked a little bewildered for a moment and raised his arms to rub at his face and ears. Then he looked up at Harry, smiled, and burst into hysterical laughter, keeling right over onto his back.

"You're your mother's kid, all right," Harry said, shaking his head as Teddy gave another squeal and wriggled over onto his stomach, righting himself to crawl and find his favorite stuffed bear, which lay a few feet away. Harry caught him around the middle, seizing the bear as well, and picked up the bottle Andromeda had left. He leaned his back against the wall and stretched Teddy out in his lap, tucking the bear into his arms before tipping the bottle for him.

"And that's just your Uncle Ron rubbing off on you," Harry laughed, when Teddy's eyes immediately began to close as he drank.

The truth was that—except for his eyes, which were all Tonks—Teddy most strongly resembled Remus. The irony of this had not been lost on Harry, who had been the first to voice the opinion aloud and was therefore mocked mercilessly by Ron, Bill, Charlie, George, and even Ginny and Hermione, who thought it was adorable that he'd noticed. For the first part of the summer, Harry had intentionally afforded Andromeda her space, though he wanted desperately to meet Teddy and be a part of his life in a way that Sirius had never been able to be in his own.

And it had worked; his patience had paid off, and he was earning Andromeda's trust by the day. In fact, she had lost so much in the last year alone that Harry was pleasantly surprised every time she called on him for moments like this, when he would watch Teddy for hours at a time and really take care of him. Ginny told him time and time again that he oughtn't be—and she had quite the attachment to the baby as well—but still, Harry was always thankful, and more than a little bit startled, when he was called upon to care for Teddy.

More than once during the last six months, Harry had wondered if, during the time that they raised him, his aunt and uncle had experienced anything like the feelings Harry had for Teddy. Happiness at watching him grow, recognizing with pain and joy the traits that he undoubtedly had gotten from his parents, and a million other little things that made caring for Teddy the most excruciatingly wonderful part of Harry's life.

He doubted it.

"How are you feeling about Christmas, Ted? Think Ron's parents will manage it? How about your Gran?" Harry asked the drowsing baby, who had nearly finished his bottle. Teddy blinked lazily at him, and Harry smiled. "Not a lot gets to you, does it?"

Teddy finished his bottle, and, as was his custom, dropped it and reached up his arms for Harry's neck. Harry grinned and lifted him against his shoulder, where he snuggled happily and burped.

"You've got the right idea, mate."

* * *

"I want to go home," Ginny moaned, dangling upside down over the end of her bed. Her long red hair reached the floor in a pile, in which Arnold the Pygmy Puff was rolling playfully.

"It's not good for your back to sit like that," Parvati told her, walking by with a stack of books in her arms. Ginny made a face at her behind her back, but she seemed to notice it anyway. "You're the one who keeps limping up here after practice and saying it hurts."

"Speaking of which, don't you _have_ Quidditch practice or something?" asked Lavender, rubbing the side of her scarred face gently as she turned a page in a book and made a note. "Get your mind off things."

"No," Ginny said sullenly.

"Well, you're the Captain," said Hermione crossly from the window seat. "Why don't you organize one?"

"What's the point? Everyone's buried under homework right now, and this weather is the worst," Ginny said, gesturing out the window to the icy rain that was steadily flooding the grounds.

"I think Angelina Johnson would kill you if she heard you say that," snorted Lavender.

Ginny gave a sigh, as Arnold climbed up a strand of her hair, squeaking incessantly. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Hermione, have you finished your Transfiguration essay?" Lavender asked.

"An hour ago," Hermione murmured, without looking up from her Ancient Runes; she was deep in a translation, and this conversation around her was less than welcome.

"Well, could you—?"

Ginny gave another sigh, and Hermione slammed her book shut, leaping to her feet and looking a little wild-eyed.

"Ginny! If you don't stop that right now, I swear, I'm going to—"

"Easy, Hermione, easy," Parvati said, as she, Ginny, and Lavender all suppressed giggles of shock.

Hermione gave an exasperated growl of annoyance and scooped up her bag. "I'm going to the library." And she stormed out of the dormitory, muttering to herself. She hurried down the staircases for five floors, grumbling and grouching.

She was not annoyed with Ginny, Lavender, or Parvati—but she was tired of hearing about everyone's excitement to go home. It was difficult for her to imagine "going home," when for her, it meant going nowhere near her home. She would be with Ron, and Harry, and the Weasleys, of course—but as it was still not safe (thanks to the ongoing Death Eater investigations) for her to go to Australia and find her parents, she would not really be going home.

And yet every instinct she possessed told her that she could not say anything about it to Ginny or Ron. She and Harry—as they had discussed in their letters—were already going to be intruding upon a very private holiday for the Weasleys, and Hermione would never forgive herself if Mr. or Mrs. Weasley thought she was not grateful for their hospitality and kindness.

So she consoled herself by thinking that, if nothing else, she would be seeing Ron in just three days. She had just reached the upper balcony of the entrance hall, when she saw that the front doors of the castle were standing slightly open.

Hermione looked around; the entrance hall was deserted. The memorial flags that adorned the wall above the front doors fluttered slightly in the chill air. She descended the staircase, looking around for some sign of who could be outside in this inclement weather; dinner had ended some time ago, and it was already quite dark out on the grounds. She glanced into the Great Hall, where the candles on the twelve Christmas trees glimmered beneath the gray clouds of the ceiling.

Deciding that it must have been a mistake, Hermione moved to push the doors shut.

"Wait!"

She leapt back in fright as Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick ran inside, drenched from head to foot. "Professor," Hermione stammered, "I—I'm sorry, I thought—"

"It's quite all right, Miss Granger," Professor Flitwick told her. He looked up at Professor McGonagall. "I shall go to London at once, Headmistress."

"Thank you, Filius," said Professor McGonagall, lifting off her dripping cloak. "Let me know the moment you have news."

"Of course," Professor Flitwick replied, and he hurried off up the staircase toward his office.

Hermione turned to Professor McGonagall, who was smoothing her hair back. "I'm really sorry, Professor, I had no idea anyone would be out—"

"What are you doing out of your dormitory, Miss Granger?" she asked distractedly, barely seeming to register Hermione's presence.

"I was going to the library, and I saw the open doors," she explained.

"It—oh," said Professor McGonagall, shaking her head. "Oh. Very well—carry on, Miss Granger."

Hermione nodded once and turned to leave. Then she stopped and faced her again. "Erm—Professor? Why is Professor Flitwick going to London? Is everything all right?"

Professor McGonagall gave an exhausted sort of sigh, removing her spectacles and rubbing her eyes. "Yes, Miss Granger, in a manner of speaking." Hermione watched her closely for a moment as she replaced her glasses. "I suggest you get to the library if you need something—it will be closing soon."

"I—is there something I can help you with, Professor?" Hermione asked, taking a step closer. "Anything?"

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "No, there's—well, wait a moment—you are Head Girl. I wonder if you might notify your classmates—and instruct your prefects to pass the message along to the other Houses—Herbology lessons are to be cancelled for the rest of the week."

"Cancelled?" Hermione repeated. "But—Professor, why?"

"Professor Sprout has had an emergency arise with her family," said Professor McGonagall briskly. "She has returned home earlier than anticipated."

Hermione stared at her, as realization finally hit. "Oh," she said quietly. "Will—will Professor Sprout be back for the new term?"

"I don't know, Miss Granger," said Professor McGonagall. "But we are hopeful that she will."

"Of course," said Hermione quietly. "I'll spread the word."

Professor McGonagall nodded once, blinking quickly, and left Hermione standing alone at the bottom of the staircase.

* * *

George lay on the couch in his flat, staring up at the ceiling. Ron had locked up again, and George had forced some nice conversation with him in order to get him out of the shop. He might not have been convinced of George's good mood, but at least he had gone home without a fuss—without asking about Angelina.

Not for the first time, George wondered if he was cracking up. He knew he wasn't himself. He also knew that he couldn't be himself ever again. But what really made him question his own sanity was the fact that for two weeks, he had been going back to firewhisky to make himself feel better about the approaching holiday; he had purposefully engaged in a nasty argument with Angelina, which had resulted in her departure from his life; and he had seriously considered leaving the country until January. Just cutting himself off from everyone here, and disappearing for a few months. Ron could manage the shop. His family could have some time to themselves, without taking care of him, and he had enough money that he wouldn't have to worry about bothering anybody.

And, as it often did, George's mind turned to the possibility of what it would have been like the other way around. What if he had died, and Fred had lived?

Fred wouldn't be collapsing like this, he was sure. Fred would be managing the store with ease. Fred would be spending time with his parents, able to laugh and feel connected to them even through his pain. Fred would be able to look Percy in the eye and forgive him for breaking his promise; he would know, and know down to his core, that he could not have stopped what had happened to George. Fred would be able to visit George's grave.

George had decided some time ago that he would not be going home for Christmas. All that remained was the question of how to do it. Perhaps tomorrow, he would remember to fake a cough in front of Ron, say that he was feeling under the weather, and then just miss the holiday altogether—by accident, of course.

His stomach churned and he hated himself as he thought of his mother's face when she realized he would not be there; she would know.

But George was not going. He was proud of his family, proud of their strength, their effort, and their resolve to keep moving on. And as much as he didn't want to be left behind, George could not—and would not—be the last one holding them back. It was not fair, and it was not right for him to torture them by being the only one who could not piece his life back together.

Fred would have been able to do it.

* * *

I know that many of you don't live in the US—many of you are fortunate enough to live in countries that are much, much more sensible about their gun laws. And I know that I don't usually mention things like this, mainly because it's not appropriate to my purposes here on this website.

However, I feel compelled to say (though I live nowhere on the east coast) that I am physically sickened by the events today in Newtown, Connecticut. I write for children, or, I should say, I dream of writing for children. Today, twenty children who had dreams like mine were murdered. It's unfair, and it's cruel. I am not a religious person in the slightest, but I hope that as it suits you will remember the people who today lost their lives, their joy, their peace of mind, their innocence, and, worst of all, for that is what this story is about, their family.

I dedicate not only this story, but the stories that I will one day write, to the memories of those twenty children.


	3. Chapter 3

Three

* * *

Percy took a breath, steadying himself, and walked into the main atrium of Gringotts. Goblins milled everywhere behind the counters, arguing in Gobbledegook, while wizards in dark blue robes, under the displeased gaze of supervising goblins, carried boxes full of cursed treasure out of the building. The oldest vaults—those belonging to known Death Eaters and their families—were being scoured for curses and items of Dark magic. Bill had been placed in charge of the operation and was working closely with their father's team in the newly developed Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Dark Objects. Percy pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and approached one wizard who had divested himself of the box he had been carrying.

"Excuse me—I'm looking for Bill Weasley?"

"He's through there," the wizard said, nodding towards an open door down the corridor. "His office is on the right, you can't miss it."

"Thanks," Percy said, walking off down the corridor, and found the office at once; the sign on the door read:

WILLIAM WEASLEY

CURSEBREAKER

VAULT MANAGEMENT

Percy raised a hand and knocked.

"Come in." Percy swallowed and collected himself one last time before opening the door. "Perce!" Bill said in surprise, lifting his feet off the desk and getting up. He embraced him happily. "How are you? What are you doing here?"

"I, er, I thought maybe if you were free we could get some lunch," Percy shrugged. "I'll buy."

Bill chuckled. "Sure, Percy. Are you okay?"

"I—I'm fine," Percy replied. "At least—I think so."

Now Bill frowned at him. "Something I can help with?"

Percy was beginning to feel very hot around the collar. "Look, let's—let's just get lunch, all right?"

"Sure, okay," said Bill. He turned back to his desk and picked up his cloak. "Is it still bloody cold out?"

Percy nodded. "No snow, though."

"It's been a weird season. When was the last time it snowed?" Bill asked, as they walked out of Gringotts together.

"November?" Percy asked. "I can't remember."

The curbs and cobblestones of Diagon Alley were glistening with the cold rainwater that dripped from the eaves and rooftops of the stores. A chink of blue sky was visible in the thick gray clouds overhead, almost assuring them that there would be no snow.

"Shall we go to the Leaky Cauldron?" Percy asked, his breath coming out in huge clouds as they walked along the alley.

"Sounds fine," Bill answered.

It was warm and comfortable inside the pub, and Percy quickly spotted a table towards the back where they could talk in private. They placed their orders with Tom and sat down.

Bill was watching Percy closely. "What's going on, Perce?"

Percy cleared his throat. "Nothing, really. I mean—well, nothing serious."

Bill frowned, deepening the scars on his face. "You know I don't believe that, right?"

Percy sighed. "I just—have I told you about my friend? Lucy?"

This was obviously not what Bill had expected to hear, and he raised his eyebrows. "That girl who got hurt when the—"

"The balcony came down, yes," Percy finished. "You remember her?"

"I remember you telling me about her," said Bill.

"Well—she—she keeps trying to set me up with her cousin—"

Bill snorted. "And I thought you were a pushover for Ginny!" he laughed. "A sixteen-year-old is pushing you into a relationship, and you have to come to me for help?"

"Will you just listen?" Percy snapped, and Bill looked startled. "I—it's just, it's making me think—I don't want to have a girlfriend right now—"

"No one said you had to have one, Percy," said Bill, looking thoroughly confused.

Percy stared at him for a moment, knowing that he was making no sense whatsoever to his brother. "I—I need advice," he said lamely.

"All right," Bill replied. "Advice about what?"

"I—I don't think I—I don't think I should come to Christmas." Bill stared at him seriously, not saying anything. "I really don't," Percy continued. "I—I was thinking about—I was talking about it with Lucy….she told me I was being stupid, but—I just don't know. I don't know if Mum and Dad will want me intruding—"

"Bloody hell, Percy," Bill growled, looking away, and Percy was startled into silence as he seemed to take a moment to collect himself. Finally, he looked at Percy again. "I don't want to say this in a way that—that'll hurt your feelings, because I know it wasn't easy for you, either—but do you have any idea what Mum and Dad went through from the day you left?"

Percy felt shame burn in the pit of his stomach. "I know I was horrible. I just—I know, okay? I was awful, what I did was the worst thing they could've—"

"Well, no, that's where you're wrong," Bill said, raising a finger and pointing at him. "The worst thing that could've happened has happened. They lost Fred. They lost one of us. And—I don't know—I feel like I've really—I've got a different perspective on it than you have, Perce—maybe it's because I'm married, maybe it's because I'm starting to—to understand some things—"

He broke off, and Percy stared at him.

"Look," he continued, swallowing hard and fixing Percy with a hard gaze. "Mum and Dad are in the best place they can be right now, and that's not true of all of us. And if you think for a second that Mum doesn't know—that she doesn't know George is doing everything he can to avoid the rest of us, or—or that you're so confused that you're finding all your troubles everywhere but where they are—I mean, Perce, I know you were gone a while…but you know Mum."

Percy swallowed a lump in his throat and looked away.

"I know you're—you're upset, and you're going through—well, a lot, right now," Bill said quietly. "I don't think any of us are going to be the same after—after…you know."

The moment of Percy's arrival in the Great Hall, six months ago, bearing Fred's body in his arms, seemed to hang in the air between them.

"But the thing is, you can't run out on us again," Bill said frankly. "I mean, you just can't. Especially not now. This Lucy girl sounds like she's pretty smart, and it sounds like she's told you exactly what I'm saying right now."

"I just…I don't know how to…act," Percy told him lamely. "I don't know what you're all going to expect from me."

"We're not expecting anything, Percy," said Bill, sounding a little surprised. "We don't need you to be in control of everything, because I can tell you, that's not true of any of us. We just want you to come back for Christmas."

Percy nodded.

"And you don't have to bring a girlfriend, all right?" Bill added, smiling at last. "In fact, I think for the safety of your dignity, you'd better not—Charlie's coming home, he'll never let you live it down."

Percy laughed reluctantly. "Well, what are you and Fleur doing? You can't hold her hostage in England forever."

"For your information, you little git," Bill chuckled, "we're going to France on Saturday, and we'll be there for Christmas Eve. So we'll be missing the first part of things at the Burrow, but we'll come back on Christmas morning."

At that moment, Tom arrived with a tray of food. When he had given them their lunches, Percy paused and didn't pick up his fork. Bill looked up from his rare steak, frowning mid-chew.

"Percy?"

"Do you really think I shouldn't bring a date?" Bill laughed so hard he choked, and Percy continued, "Because I was thinking, maybe she's a Slytherin or something, and then we'd all really have something to remember."

* * *

It took quite a lot of effort for Molly to get through the day, to the point that she found herself napping four or five times—in the middle of folding laundry, or chopping apples for mince pie. The pain in her back, though it was no longer as bad as it had been just yesterday, seemed to have relocated to her neck. She wanted very much to chalk it up to stress, but Arthur came home at midday, having taken the next two weeks off as a holiday, and found her sleeping in her rocker, her knitting in her lap.

"All I'm saying is that at no point in the last forty years have I seen you take a nap," Arthur said, when she waved it off. "I don't think—no, Molly, not even when you were pregnant with Ginny!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Arthur, I've taken naps," she answered impatiently, already on her feet and hurrying around the kitchen to get something together for lunch.

"Have you eaten today?" he asked seriously, and Molly glared at him.

"I have, thank you for your concern, and if you haven't noticed, I'm cooking right now!" she retorted. Arthur seemed cowed for a moment, and Molly closed her eyes, shaking her head. She came around the counter and put her arms around him, kissing his cheek. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I just—I—" she broke off. "Do you promise me you won't overreact?"

"When have I ever done that?" Arthur asked, rather sulkily.

Molly laughed. "I just think I might be coming down with something. That's all. And I don't want you to worry about it, because whatever it is, it's not serious in the slightest."

"Are you sure?" Arthur frowned. "I'm worried about you."

"Arthur, I know you are," she said. "Really, I do—but whatever I've caught is just a little thing. It's not anything to worry about."

"I just think I'd feel better if you'd come to St. Mungo's with me, just to be sure—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Arthur," Molly snapped, feeling her patience break. "Please don't treat me like a child!"

"Molly, your—your health is a serious matter!" Arthur insisted. "Yours is, and mine is, and the kids'—it's doing you no favors to sit back and ignore it if you're sick!"

"I'm done discussing this, Arthur, you're being unreasonable," said Molly, turning away. "Your lunch will be ready in about ten minutes. Go and wash up."

"I'm being unreasonable—!" Arthur exclaimed. "Molly, I—"

But Molly wouldn't look at him. She heard him give an exasperated sigh and march out of the kitchen and up the spiral staircase. She dropped a pan in the sink with unwonted vehemence.

* * *

"Ginny, you're going to set the desk on fire."

"Oh—sorry, Luna," she mumbled, putting down her wand and forcing herself to sit still. She watched Luna, who was concentrating deeply on conjuring bright blue, portable flames.

"I can't believe Hermione's been able to do this since she was a first year," Ginny grouched, leaning forward and resting her head on her arms.

"Hermione is something of a genius," said Luna, jabbing her wand at the empty jar before her, "although I am a bit surprised at how difficult this is."

"A little less chatter, ladies," called Professor Flitwick from where he stood atop his stack of books at the front of the classroom.

"Sorry, Professor," Ginny answered. She lowered her voice and looked at Luna again. "I really just want to go home."

"Do you really?" asked Luna, turning her enormous eyes on Ginny, who frowned. "It's just today, tomorrow, and the next day," she said soothingly, as her wand gave off a spark. "And considering Harry and Ron came to see us all just a few weeks ago, I would think you could hold on that long."

"It's not just Harry," Ginny mumbled, and Luna patted her arm.

"I know. But it really is just a few days more, and ignoring your schoolwork isn't going to make it happen more quickly," she said sagely. "You try," she added, nodding to the empty jar. "I'm going to look at the spellbook one more time."

Ginny sighed heavily and glanced across the classroom, where Hermione was chatting with Lavender and Parvati, all three of them having successfully completed the charm several times each.

All of last year, Ginny had thought that she could never want to see her family so badly, and yet she had been proven wrong. The Carrows were gone; Hogwarts was rebuilt and healing; Quidditch was back on with Ginny as the newest Gryffindor Captain; Hermione, Ron, and Harry had returned; and everything—almost everything—that was wrong had been put right.

But how she wanted to go home!

Perhaps it was her imagination, but all of her parents' letters this term had had a slightly melancholic tone, and Ginny had felt so much pain for them that she had had more than one nightmare in which she came home to find her mother back to the awful state she'd been in during the weeks after Fred's funeral.

Her outlook had not been improved by Hermione's announcement the night before in the Gryffindor common room that Herbology lessons had been cancelled for the week. In private, she had told Ginny the truth; Professor Sprout, who was not at all well after the end of the war, a victim of the same curse that had nearly killed Hermione two years ago, seemed to have had a relapse of some kind. At least, that was what Hermione believed, and it certainly made sense.

Luna leaned over, watching Ginny focus on the jar. "You can do it," she said. "Come on."

Ginny flicked her wand again, and a blue flame flickered in the jar. She smiled.

* * *

"Can I help you find anything?"

Ron turned, feeling his ears burn scarlet. Madam Malkin smiled at him. "I—er—I wanted to—I think you might have—"

She frowned a bit, looking politely confused. "Have what, dear?"

"I think—you've got my girlfriend's measurements," Ron said in a great rush.

"Oh," Madam Malkin laughed, and Ron felt himself turn even brighter red. "Well, give me her name—now wait a moment—you're Ronald Weasley, aren't you?"

"Er—yeah, I am," he said.

"Are you—oh my goodness! But people have been saying that you and Hermione Granger—" It was Madam Malkin's turn to blush.

"Rita Skeeter's still writing for _Witch Weekly_, then?" Ron asked, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry, that was terribly rude of me," Madam Malkin apologized. "I believe I do have Miss Granger's measurements from a set of dress robes she purchased—were you looking to find her a new set?"

"There's this—they're sort of a gray-blue, I think," Ron said helplessly. "She saw them this summer. I just know she likes blue—she looks really nice in it."

Madam Malkin smiled warmly. "I know just the ones, I believe I have them in the back." She hurried over to her desk and produced a thick folder full of parchment and flicked through it, looking for the right page. "Here she is." She produced one sheet and consulted it for a moment before nodding. "I'll be right back."

She bustled off and returned within a few minutes, bearing the flowy, beautiful blue robes. "I can have them tailored for you by tomorrow, dear," she said as she held them up.

Ron grinned. "That's perfect—oh." He had caught sight of the date at the top of Madam Malkin's measurement sheet. "Er—that's from two years ago?"

Madam Malkin frowned, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and looking at the parchment. "Yes, it looks like it. I wouldn't worry, dear—it's really just you boys who keep growing, girls are much more sensible about their heights," she teased, chuckling.

Ron smiled a bit stiffly. "It's just—I think she's a bit smaller, now."

Madam Malkin looked startled, and rather sad. "Oh—oh. Well, of course, dear…why don't I—well, why don't I tailor it just a bit smaller, and if there are any problems, I'll make the alterations for you right away—you just come right in."

"Okay," Ron said slowly, reaching for the moneybag with the money he had withdrawn that morning. He recalled Hermione's disappointment when the robes—for Hogwarts, her dress robes, and everything else—that she had left at the Burrow had not fit her, even after a full summer of regular meals and natural sleep. He would hate to bring her robes that reminded her of anything she didn't like to think about, and her appearance as a result of their time on the run (though she played it down, ignoring her own unhappiness by citing people like Bill and Lavender Brown) was a sensitive subject.

Ron laid ten Galleons on the counter, and Madam Malkin smiled. "You know, dear," she said, "Every single time someone has purchased these robes, they've had to come back and have it tailored—it's the French style, I think it just runs overlarge. Isn't that strange?"

Ron blinked, and she winked at him. "Right," he said. "Um—thanks."

"Your change," she replied, placing it in his hand.

"Thanks," he said hurriedly. It wasn't until he was halfway down the alley, almost back at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, that he saw he had gotten five Galleons back.

"Blimey," he murmured, pocketing the gold. Not for the first time, Ron felt the simultaneous discomfort and pleasure that came from his association with Harry and with the end of the war. Normally, he would have wanted to go back and insist that he pay the full price, but Hermione had long since explained to him that for the foreseeable future, they—she and Harry, included—were going to have to get used to being thanked in any manner of strange ways.

"Find the dress you were looking for, Ron?" George snickered from behind the register, and Ron threw him a filthy look.

"You'd better hope so, it's your Christmas present. I thought the color would bring out your eyes," he retorted.

George rolled his eyes and rang up the customer who had just approached the counter. Ron waited until the witch was gone and faced George. "I mean it, I think you'd look gorgeous in blue," he said. George smirked and shook his head. "Are you staying at Mum and Dad's on Christmas Eve? Harry and I are heading over to stay at the Burrow as soon as we pick up Ginny and Hermione from the train on Saturday night."

George coughed suddenly, several times, and scratched the back of his head. "I—y'know, I haven't decided."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "You're coming, aren't you?"

George looked momentarily harassed and nodded his head in a strange sort of way. "'Course I am," he mumbled.

"Excuse me—have you still got those Daydream potions?" A short wizard in violet robes had approached the counter. "My daughter just loves them."

"That's you, Ron," said George, nodding to the wizard. "We'll be happy to help you out, sir."

"Thanks," said the wizard, as Ron, frowning, led the way upstairs as George purposefully diverted his gaze.

* * *

"Can I help you?"

Bill approached the Welcome Witch's desk. "Er—yeah. Wilson, here to see Healer Mackintosh."

"You'll want his office on the fourth floor," said the witch in a bored voice, pointing to the stairs. "Next!"

Bill hurried up the stairs, keeping his head low; he did not want to be seen. He arrived quickly at the Magdalena Morrow Maternity and Consultations Ward and asked the first nurse he saw for Healer Mackintosh.

"Straight ahead, on your right, sir," said the tired-looking witch.

"Thanks," said Bill hurriedly. He continued up the ward, which was illuminated by green, golden, and red crystalline bubbles that dangled all along the ceiling, hearing the sounds of happy, laughing families and crying newborns. His heart twisted a little, but he pushed it away as he came upon the Healer's door.

"Ah, Mr. Wea—Wilson," said Mackintosh, rising to greet him. The pseudonym had been quickly dispensed with yesterday, when he had recognized Bill from a _Daily Prophet_ article on his family. "Thanks for coming back."

"Thanks for being so quick about it," Bill replied. "Really, I—I just want to get to the bottom of this."

Mackintosh was frowning at a piece of parchment that had unfolded itself and hung in midair. "Well, I must be honest with you—there's nothing to get to the bottom of."

"What?" Bill asked, stunned.

"You're a very healthy, perfectly normal twenty-eight year old man," said Healer Mackintosh with a shrug. "The attack that has scarred your face—and which, you say, affects you negatively during the full moon—doesn't appear to have had any impact on your ability to have a family."

"It—it hasn't?" stammered Bill, feeling a sudden swell of elation. "But—but that's wonderful!"

"You really oughtn't be surprised, you know—even true werewolves are capable of breeding," the Healer replied, and Bill felt a small twinge of annoyance at his dismissive tone; Teddy Lupin was hardly the product of some werewolf's _breeding_. "All I need to tell you is to relax—this phase will pass very quickly, and I'm sure you and your wife will be expecting a baby before you know it."

"Right," said Bill. "Thank you, thank you very much."

"Always happy to give the good news," said Healer Mackintosh, rising to shake his hand. Bill, feeling more lighthearted than he had in months, left the ward and strolled out of St. Mungo's. Just as he was thinking of stopping for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, his happy bubble burst. _Why_ hadn't he thought to ask?

If he was not the problem—did that mean that there was something wrong with Fleur?


	4. Chapter 4

Four

* * *

Fleur sat in the back of the Crossed Wands, Tinworth's most famous—and most empty, at this hour of the day—pub. Though she knew practically no one in the town, she kept her hood up, glancing nervously at her watch every now and then. Finally, her mother walked in, immaculately dressed in emerald green, her long hair swept into a perfect coif. Apolline spotted Fleur at once and glided over to the table, ignoring the stammers of the awestruck bartender. Fleur tried not to roll her eyes and stood to greet her mother.

"Well?" she asked in French, sitting down and indicating that Fleur should do the same. "What's gone so wrong that my darling girl needs me immediately at her side?"

Fleur looked down at her own folded hands. "I—I just wanted to know if—if you were sure, the other night."

Her mother blinked calmly. "Quite sure, Fleur. I have been doing this for a number of years."

"I know," Fleur replied, still not meeting her gaze. Her eyes stung with tears. "Isn't—isn't there anything that can be done?"

Apolline let out a long, slow breath and took her hand. "Patience, as the English say, is a virtue. It took me a very long time to accept that, when I was waiting for you to come along. And for Gabrielle."

"That doesn't make it easier, Mother," Fleur said. "Your way of consoling me is to remind me that I'm nine years older than my baby sister?"

"I am not trying to console you," Apolline replied evenly, though there was warning in her tone. "I am trying to tell you the truth. Both your grandmother and I, though we loved the men we married, experienced extraordinary difficulty with having children. Having Gabrielle, a second child, was unheard of among people like us."

"'People like us,'" Fleur said coldly. "You make it sound as though we're not human."

"Fleur, we aren't," said Apolline. "Not entirely, anyway. But you are, more than I am, and I am grateful for it—for all the difficulty you think you are having now, there is every chance that you will never wait as long as your father and I did."

"That was only five years—"

"Eight."

"Pardon me?"

"Eight years," said Apolline. Now she was the one avoiding Fleur's gaze. She drew a breath. "Your father and I knew we would marry from the moment we left Beauxbatons. We lived together in Marseilles for three years before we got married—but I knew what to expect, I told him. And he was patient with me, as frustrating as it was for both of us."

"You and Father lived—and you were giving me all of that trouble for marrying Bill when I was so young! You were seventeen and living with a man!" Fleur cried, half-amused, half-annoyed.

"Yes, well, the man was seventeen as well, if you recall," Apolline answered humorlessly. "You sound like your grandmother."

Fleur shook her head. "You really waited eight years?"

Apolline nodded solemnly. "And that's nothing. My parents took twenty-two."

"Are you serious?" Fleur asked, gaping at her.

"You were young when she died, but my mother was quite old by the time you knew her, even for a veela," said Apolline. She leaned forward and took Fleur's hands. "Just as I know that I _won't_ be when you and Bill have your baby."

"Babies," Fleur corrected, and her mother smiled.

"A son, too, I expect?" she asked, shaking her head.

"Exactly," said Fleur, lifting her chin slightly.

"Er—s'cuse me, can I, erm, get you ladies anything?"

The English accent of the bartender startled Fleur, but she looked at her mother. "I would like a glass of elf-made wine, please, eef you 'ave any. Fleur?"

"Nothing for me," she said.

"Bring anuzzer glass for ze wine, eef you would," said Apolline, and the bartender, bowing, shuffled off. "You must relax, Fleur, and be patient with yourself, or you won't get anywhere."

Fleur frowned and looked away. Her mother brushed a hand against her hair. "Oh, my sweet girl. You are so used to everything coming easily, I am afraid you don't know how to be patient."

"I seem to remember Madame Maxime writing you something like that in a report, no?" Fleur asked, with a dismal attempt at humor.

"I think she did," Apolline laughed. She watched Fleur closely for a moment. The bartender returned, but his hands were shaking so much he could not pour the wine. Apolline took it from him with a gracious smile and poured a glass for herself and for Fleur.

Then she faced her, narrowing her eyes over the rim of her glass. "Fleur, this is the second time this week you've come to me with these troubles—what does Bill say?"

"Nothing," Fleur said, shaking her head. "I don't want to tell him."

Apolline raised her eyebrows. "So he thinks—what? That you just can't become pregnant?"

"Well—no, not that," Fleur replied, feeling defensive. "I—I don't know how much of this he needs to know, that's all."

"I imagine he is trying to justify this to himself, though?" Apolline asked.

"No," Fleur lied. Her mother's blue eyes narrowed. "Well—yes, but I've told him he's wrong."

"You've told him he's wrong about what?" asked Apolline, her voice hardening.

Fleur waved a hand impatiently. "That what the werewolf did—the curse scars—he thinks it's because of that—"

"Oh, Fleur," murmured her mother, covering her eyes with one hand. "He believes it's his fault?"

"I've told him he's wrong, Mother," she answered.

"And you think he'll believe that?" Apolline said. "Fleur, Bill is a man who believes that he has won the world's most beautiful woman for a wife, and when problems like this come up, he is going to blame himself first. He will refuse to believe anything else—and in this case, he has every reason to think that the problem lies with him, poor man."

"Mother—"

Apolline held up both hands. "No, you listen to me, Fleur Isabelle Delacour. You owe Bill an explanation. It's not fair for him to believe that he is the reason you haven't had a child. The fact is that it takes veela a long time to have children with a human—but you are more a witch than you are a veela, and before very long, you are going to have a baby, whether you're ready or not. The only reason you have to be worried right now is that you, my girl, are not being honest with your husband."

"What if he doesn't want to wait?" Fleur burst out, feeling her tears spill over. "What if he doesn't want to wait and guess and hope and imagine? The war is over, Mother, and—his brother is dead, I can't tell you how difficult it's been for his family—his mother, Molly, she—she's barely herself anymore—and Bill, he feels terrible because he cannot always be there to help his parents, or his brothers, because of me—"

"Stop," Apolline commanded, moving closer to Fleur and gently her tears away. "Do you want to be married to Bill?"

"Yes."

"Do you love him?"

"_Yes."_

"Then you know the answer," said Apolline. "Bill is a good man, Fleur. I knew that from the moment I set eyes on him, and for all the trouble you had with Molly Weasley, the moment I met _her_, I knew she had raised a good son—a whole house full of them, as a matter of fact."

"And Ginny," Fleur said, smiling slightly.

"And Ginny, of course," said her mother. "They are exactly the kind of family I always wanted my girl to find and become a part of. I just wish there was one more boy, closer to Gabrielle's age," she laughed.

"Mother," Fleur reproached, though she too giggled.

"Do you know that that girl will _not_ stop talking about Harry Potter?" Apolline asked exasperatedly. "You would think she hadn't met him at all! We might have to start coming to Christmas in this wretched weather just so she'll stop talking!"

"She still thinks he saved her life," Fleur agreed, shaking her head. "Madame Maxime must have explained it to her a hundred times, but no—Gabrielle will not hear of it."

"You thought precisely the same thing," said Apolline shrewdly.

"Yes, I did," Fleur replied. "But now—well, after everything that happened, I certainly know that he has saved my life." She became lost for a moment in a memory of the night the war ended, but was jarred back to reality by her mother's hand on her arm.

"Someday you will tell me all that happened, won't you?" she asked.

"If I knew, I would, Mother," Fleur replied. "But…the fact is, I will probably never know everything."

Apolline frowned slightly, looking dissatisfied. "Well, my dear, we are off our subject. I know that it is not really my place to tell you how you must handle your marriage—but in this instance, I feel I am right. You must be fair to your husband and tell him the truth. It must be breaking his heart to believe that his injury is the reason for your current unhappiness."

"I know," Fleur murmured. "I—I will speak to him."

"Good girl," said Apolline, sipping the last of her wine. "I have patients to see this afternoon, I must go back." She stood, and Fleur did the same. They embraced. Apolline kissed Fleur's cheek. "I love you, my girl."

"I love you, Mother," said Fleur heavily.

* * *

"This is a nice picture," said Darya, and Charlie turned to see her holding up the framed photo he had of his entire family in Egypt. He picked up the wine glasses he had just poured out and joined her.

"Yeah, that's—wow, five years old now, I think?"

"You have many brothers," Darya chuckled.

Charlie pointed to the smallest face in the photograph. "And one sister."

"How old are they now?"

Charlie frowned slightly as he and Darya moved to sit on the sofa. She sat down quite close to him—the better to look at the picture he now held. "Let's see…well, that's Bill—he's the oldest, twenty-eight—back when he worked in Egypt. He's married now, he and his wife live in England." He moved his finger clockwise. "Those are my parents, Molly and Arthur—that's Percy, he's younger than me—just turned twenty-two, but this was before he started his last year at Hogwarts. And, let's see…that's Ron, he's eighteen, almost nineteen now, and even taller, if you can imagine it. Ginny's seventeen—"

"Twins," said Darya in surprise, pointing at Fred and George, who were grinning and laughing mischievously.

"Yeah that's—that's Fred," Charlie said. "And George."

"How old are they?" Darya asked.

Charlie hesitated. "Twenty."

Darya laughed. "Even _you_ have too many brothers to remember," she teased. Charlie laughed uncomfortably, but couldn't bring himself to say anything. Darya looked a bit unnerved. "Do—do any of your other brothers have wives? The twins are quite handsome, no? And so is—this one," she added, pointing to Percy. "In his own way."

Charlie smiled slightly. "George is dating someone. So are Ron and Ginny."

"Maybe if I ever come to England I will have to ask Fred out," Darya laughed, and Charlie stiffened. He got up quickly under the pretext of pouring himself more wine. _It's not her fault, it's not her fault, she doesn't know_.

"Charlie?" she asked. "I'm sorry—did I say something?"

"N-no," Charlie replied. "I just—sorry, nothing."

Darya looked very uncomfortable. "I was—I was admiring these drawings. Did you do them?" She pointed to the framed sketches that hung on Charlie's wall. There were drawings of his family, the Burrow, Stoatshead Hill, and many of dragons.

"Yeah, I did," he answered, with a stab at normal conversation. "The—uh—the dragons—well, my sister, she really missed me when I first moved here—she was only nine, you know. So she used to ask me to draw the dragons I met for her. I'd send her one every few weeks—stopped a couple of years ago, though."

Darya rose to admire the scales of a sleeping Chinese Fireball. "You're very talented, Charlie."

"Thanks," he murmured.

She faced him. "I really am sorry about the other day—I told Yuri he needed to show a little more respect to someone whose family helped all of us avoid what your country went through."

Charlie looked away. "It—it wasn't just us. It wasn't even mostly us."

"Still," Darya said. "Most of my mother's family died at Grindelwald's hands. I know what could have been."

"They did?" Charlie asked. Maybe now, here, in this foreign country, he had found someone who could understand, even minutely, what his life had been like for the last three years—the last six months.

Darya nodded. "I am glad that your family is all right."

Charlie's heart sank. He could not say it. He could not bring himself to do it. "Me too," he mumbled.

"So much for Gryffindor bravery," he muttered to himself, as he saw Darya safely out of his apartment building half an hour later—without a good night kiss.

* * *

"Dumbledore," said Hermione, and the gargoyle that blocked the stairs to Professor McGonagall's office leapt aside. She ascended the spiral staircase, glancing at her watch; it was not yet time for dinner, so there was every chance that she would get to speak to the headmistress.

She reached the office door and paused; a man's voice was speaking on the other side. Hermione frowned, but as she did not wish to be thought an eavesdropper, she knocked. There was a moment's silence.

"Come in."

Nervously, Hermione pushed open the door. Professor McGonagall sat at her desk beneath the rows of sleeping portraits—Professor Dumbledore was directly over her head, beside Professor Snape's empty frame (Hermione had only glimpsed him there once, and it was anyone's guess as to where he went)—and sitting in a chair opposite the desk was an older man who, upon Hermione's closer inspection, looked a great deal like Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, Miss Granger," she said, rising. She nodded to the wizard. "Robert, this is my current Head Girl, Hermione Granger."

"I've heard a great deal about you," said Robert with an amused chuckle. "I'm Robert McGonagall—I'm this old girl's baby brother. It's a pleasure to meet you. Minerva's long told us about how smart you are—after this last year, I'm inclined to agree with her."

Professor McGonagall's cheeks flushed slightly and she turned away, but Hermione pretended not to notice. She shook Robert's hand. "Thank you, sir. It's—it's nice to meet you as well."

"Robert, thank you for telling me," said Professor McGonagall, trying to recapture his attention.

"Ah, sure, I just didn't want you to get it in a letter," Robert answered. Hermione frowned, confused. "And it's nothing serious, mind—she's just staying at the house until she's had the baby. Kate and Meg are looking after her."

"I'm glad," said Professor McGonagall. "I'll be there by Saturday evening, at the latest."

"We'll see you then," said Robert, giving her a hug. "Don't look so worried, Minerva!"

"Goodbye, Robert," she replied.

"Nice to meet you, Hermione Granger," he said, tipping Hermione a wink before striding through the office door, which banged shut after him.

Professor McGonagall sighed and sank down at her desk again, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she looked at Hermione. "Miss Granger. What can I do for you?"

"Er—well," Hermione began. "I really just—I wondered if everything was all right."

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows shot up.

"Is someone ill?" Hermione asked, nodding to the point where Robert had just left the room.

Professor McGonagall pressed her thin lips together. "My niece is expecting a child. She took a fall this week, and her husband is out of the country. My brother came to assure me that she is well."

"Oh," Hermione said, more than a little bit stunned; she had no experience with any aspect of Professor McGonagall's life outside of Hogwarts. "I'm so sorry—that's—that's terrible."

"I appreciate your asking," said Professor McGonagall, not unkindly, though in a tone that dismissed any further discussion, "But that is not the reason you are here."

"Well," said Hermione, "it's almost the same question. I was wondering if you'd heard anything about—Professor Sprout."

Something changed in Professor McGonagall's face, and she sat back slightly. Hermione thought she saw Professor Dumbledore's portrait move slightly. "I've had a letter from St. Mungo's today, as a matter of fact."

Hermione nodded slowly.

"It seems that with some rest over the holiday, Professor Sprout will be well enough to return for the new term," said Professor McGonagall.

Hermione felt herself release a breath she hadn't noticed she was holding. "That's—that's really good news." Professor McGonagall said nothing; she was staring at Hermione in the strangest way. Hermione blinked. "Thank you for telling me, Professor."

"Forgive me, Miss Granger," said Professor McGonagall, shaking her head. "It—it just occurred to me that—well, you have some experience with what Professor Sprout is going through."

Hermione felt herself turn red. "I—I do. To an extent, Professor, but I was never as—as sick as she's been. Madam Pomfrey can tell you, what happened to me—it wasn't as bad as it—"

"As it could have been, yes," said Professor McGonagall, removing her spectacles and rubbing her eyes gently. "I remember." Hermione watched her for a moment; she looked terribly tired. Like most people Hermione knew, she could have aged ten years in just the last few months.

"Was it her heart?"

Professor McGonagall looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"

"Her heart," Hermione said, sitting down and looking at her seriously. "For about six months after the Ministry…sometimes my heart would start racing, for no reason, so much that it hurt. I didn't pay much attention to it, but…it always made me feel sick…and I would always think of that night."

Was Hermione imagining it, or did Professor McGonagall's chin tremble before she spoke? "Yes, Miss Granger, it was."

Hermione nodded. She knew she had a lot to be grateful for, after the last three years, but every now and then, on occasions like this, she felt it strongly.

"Well, Miss Granger, what are your plans for your holiday?" asked Professor McGonagall, rummaging around in a drawer and producing a tartan handkerchief, with which she dabbed delicately at her nose. "I expect you'll be seeing Potter and Weasley?"

Hermione smiled slightly. "Harry and Ron are meeting me and Ginny at King's Cross on Saturday night."

"Will you see your parents?"

"No," Hermione said, her stomach clenching. "No—it's not safe to—well, you see, I put them in hiding—it's complicated—"

"I hope you don't mind, but Kingsley Shacklebolt explained some of the situation to me," said Professor McGonagall.

"Oh," said Hermione. "No, I don't mind."

"Though I know it cannot be easy for you," said Professor McGonagall, "I would like you to know that I am not only impressed with the level of the magic you performed to get them to safety, but also with the strength it took to say goodbye to your family in that manner."

Hermione looked down at her hands in her lap, feeling tears sting her eyes. "Thank you, Professor."

There was a moment of silence, in which Professor McGonagall consulted a silver pocket watch. "It's very nearly time for dinner, Miss Granger. I must write back to St. Mungo's."

"Right," Hermione said, jumping up at once. "Sorry, Professor."

"Not at all," she replied with a slight smile. "If I don't see you before your train leaves, a Happy Christmas to you—and to the Weasleys. Pass that along, won't you?" she asked, frowning slightly.

"Of course," said Hermione. She walked to the door. "Happy Christmas, Professor. I hope your niece feels better soon."

"Thank you, Miss Granger."

Hermione opened the door, and was just about to leave, when she heard Professor McGonagall call her.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Do come and see me more often in the next term, won't you?" she asked.

Hermione couldn't help it; she beamed.

* * *

Molly was sleeping in her rocking chair yet again, but Arthur could not worry now; he had found the perfect moment to seize his chance. Before she could hear him, he crept to the bookshelf, pulled down her book of home remedies, and darted into the scullery.

Ears pricked for any sound of Molly's stirring, Arthur began flipping through the dog-eared old book. _What to do With Scrofungulus…Basic Bruises and Simple Scrapes…When to Call a Healer…When to Just Calm Down…Contrary Curses…Colds, Coughs, and Contagious Disease…_

That looked like the one he probably wanted, thought Arthur, flicking through to the right page. _Spattergroit_…that wasn't it. _Scrofungulus (In Case You Missed It The First Time You Tried to Figure This Out)_…no. And then, Arthur's heart stopped. He hadn't meant to stop on this page—but it had caught his eye. He knew it had to be what he was looking for.

_Dragon Pox_.

He poked his head out of the scullery, to the point where he could just spy Molly, nodding off in her chair, and bit his lip.

_In a child, dragon pox will present with characteristic spots upon the skin, usually tinged with green. Lethargy, exhaustion, and cold symptoms are often a part of diagnosis, but not regularly. Unless the diseased child develops a high fever, a Healer's attention is not usually required. Essence of dittany and a regular diet of chicken soup will alleviate symptoms within a fortnight._

_Infection of an adult, or a relapse of the virus in the same, should be handled with extreme care. A Healer's advice should be sought upon presentation of symptoms, including lethargy, exhaustion, and joint pain._

_Note: joint pain often indicates relapse, rather than a new infection. In this case, the virus has been dormant. Symptoms in a relapse are manageable, but progressive, and require the attention of a Healer._

Arthur's heart sank slightly. Molly had had dragon pox during their fourth year at Hogwarts, and missed nearly a full month of lessons while she lay in the hospital wing.

"Arthur? Where did you go?"

Arthur closed the book quickly and hid it under a basket of laundry, picking up a pair of socks. He stuffed one in his pocket and emerged from the scullery.

"I'm here," he said to Molly, holding it up. "I just noticed that I was wearing two different socks!"

Molly rubbed her neck, frowning slightly, but she gave a tired smile. "I'll never know how you manage to do that."

Arthur smiled tightly and came to kiss her cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

"_I know it's not my business, but…I don't think you should skip Christmas."_

"_You're right—"_

"_George."_

"—_It's not your business."_

"_All right, then, you git." She kisses him. Why? "I think you've had enough of the firewhisky for tonight—"_

"_Ange, stop. I'm working."_

"_Look, George, I—"_

"_Why'd you even come over? I thought you were seeing Alicia tonight."_

"_No."_

_She looks hurt. Be nice. Smile at her. Good boy._

"_Change of plans?"_

_She's still hurt. Why is she still hurt? Put down the bloody quill and focus._

"_You really don't remember?"_

"_I—I can't say."_

"_George, I was at St. Mungo's. They were treating my arm…You said you would meet me."_

"_Oh. Right."_

_He forgot. He always forgets._

"_It's all right."_

"_Okay. Good."_

_Apologize to her. Now._

"_What do you want for dinner? I'm not all that hungry, but—"_

"_Angelina."_

"—_I can always make you something. Those potions—"_

"_Angelina."_

"—_really do something to my appetite. How about—"_

"_Angelina, why are you putting up with me?"_

_An impatient sigh. A kiss above his missing ear. It burns white-hot where her lips touch him._

"_No, Angelina, seriously. Why are you—why do you bother?"_

_Her patience is being tested; he is the one testing her, pushing her as far as she can go. STOP IT._

"_You know why, George."_

"_No, actually, I don't. I don't know why you're bothering with me, when—when you can—"_

"_George, let's not do this. You're tired. You've been drinking—"_

"_Don't tell me what to do!"_

_Her patience snaps; it was never very flexible._

"_I'm not, and you know it." A sigh. "Maybe I'll come back in the morning. I'll—"_

"_You don't want to do that."_

_Yes, she does. YES, SHE DOES._

"_Yes, I do."_

"_No you don't! You don't want to come back and deal with me again tomorrow! It's not good for you—_I'm_ not good for you—"_

_Silence._

"_Do you have any idea how selfish you sound?"_

_That voice, like ice. And he's _still_ talking. What an idiot._

"_I'm not being selfish, I'm trying to protect you—"_

"_I'm coming back in the morning. We'll talk about this tomorrow."_

"_Will everybody just stop being so—patient with me? Can you all just stop pitying me and leave me alone?"_

_He's shouting. Why is he shouting? Stop shouting at her!_

"_Believe me, George, no one pities you. Especially not me."_

"_Yeah, right—"_

"_All right, then. Bye, George."_

_What?_

"_What?"_

"_I'll see you."_

_Those are tears—real tears—and he made her cry._

"_Don't look so miserable, George. I'm giving you what you want. I'll leave you alone, now."_

_She chokes on the last word. Blinks. Her tears fall, and she wipes them away with her good hand; the other is in a sling, from the appointment he forgot._

_The door closes behind her._

George kicked the foot of Fred's bed, staring down at the unmade tangle of blankets and sheets. It was two in the morning. He hadn't slept in the bedroom for months. In fact, he hadn't changed a thing about it from the way it looked in March, when Bill had come crashing in in the middle of the night.

When Fred was still alive.

* * *

"Bill, do you want ze blue cloak, or ze black?" Fleur called, running a hand through her hair and frowning critically at the stacks of clothing she had arranged on their bed.

Bill, grinning and toweling his scarred face clean of shaving cream, came in the bedroom and kissed her cheek. "You don't need to pack for me. I'll take care of it. We're not leaving until tomorrow."

"Oh, I am not packing for you," Fleur replied, scoffing at him as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "I am trying to figure out 'ow many of my clothes can fit in your bag."

Bill raised his eyebrows, laughing. "Oh, _really?"_

Fleur put on a deeply thoughtful expression. "Eef you take ze black, I weel 'ave more space…but ze blue ees warmer." She batted her eyelashes. "You don't mind being cold, do you, chére?"

Bill laughed again and kissed her. "Never."

"I didn't theenk so," she replied with a giggle, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him, closing her eyes, clinging tightly to him—and then he pulled back. She lifted her eyebrows. "Bill?"

"I'm late for work," he said, kissing her gently.

Fleur's heart sank. She could see it in his face; he was not interested in anything more intimate than a goodbye kiss for his busy day. "All right. 'Ave a nice day." She turned back to her suitcase and began sorting her clothes again, swallowing a lump in her throat.

His hand touched her arm. "Fleur…"

She looked up at him, beaming. "I weel 'ave steak for you zis evening, chére. 'Ow ees zat?"

He looked pained, and she resisted the urge to tell him—to set him right—to stop him from getting even an inch farther from her than he already was—

"That sounds perfect, pretty girl," he murmured in her ear, pulling her close to him. "You are perfect."

No. She wasn't. Fleur smiled, but suddenly, in her heart, she wanted him to go—to leave her alone. "You should go," she whispered. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied, kissing her cheek, and she smiled at him. He grinned, picked up his cloak and briefcase, and left.

Fleur held her breath; the front door closed, and she sank down on the bed, shaking with sobs.

* * *

"Do you want tea, dear?"

Molly shook her head, already removing her cloak as she walked through the kitchen to the living room. Arthur followed her.

"What about some soup? The Healer said chicken soup would help," he said hopefully.

"No, thank you, dear," she said, brushing her hand against his arm. "I'll just—I'll lie down, I think. I'll take my first potion."

Arthur looked very upset. "Are you sure?"

"That's what they said to do," said Molly, giving him a faint smile. She stopped, halfway up the spiral staircase. "Arthur, you—I _am_ glad you made me go."

Arthur shrugged slightly. "That's why I'm here."

She smiled briefly and continued up the stairs, cloak in hand. She arrived in hers and Arthur's bedroom, where she sank onto the bed, sighing heavily. _Dragon pox_.

Of all things, dragon pox. How much more ridiculous was she to become? Of course, she would be fine—mild recurrences of the illness like this were quite normal, especially in stressful environments. Actually, the Healer had been surprised that with seven children, it had taken her this long to have a relapse. And she should be pleased, he had said. She had come to him at precisely the opportune moment; she would take a few different types of potion and be right as rain in time for the New Year. Yes, she would have to take it slowly until then, but with the stress of the holidays—the holidays, she thought with a laugh—behind her, she would be perfectly well.

Molly looked down at her hands, twisting her wedding band on her finger. Just at the time when she had felt strongest, ready to face whatever difficulties the coming week promised—dragon pox. She felt like a fool, and worse, she felt like an old fool.

She knew Arthur had been trying to help, and every rational part of her was saying that she had to be sensible and appreciate the fact that she had not become seriously ill; that she would be able to have the holiday with her family, rather than in a hospital ward. But Molly, at this precise moment, could not bring herself to appreciate anything.

She was angry—angry that her son was gone, angry with Arthur, for forcing her to see the truth, and most of all, angry with herself, because a very resentful, dissenting part of her knew that it was fully her own fault she was sick. She had not taken care of herself properly. She had wanted so badly to be strong, to bring her family together for what she had put in her mind as an end-all, be-all event—and now she had failed. After all her belief in her own healing over Freddie's loss, she was not healing at all.

There was a soft knock on the door, and Molly sniffed and wiped away a few tears. She lay down over the blankets, turning her back to the door, and closed her eyes. She heard Arthur walk in softly. A moment later, a weight sank onto the bed beside her, and his hand brushed against her hair. He gave a sigh.

There was silence for several moments, and Molly felt herself relax under the gentle rhythm of his fingers combing her hair. Then, he began to hum. The weight disappeared as he obviously stood up, but he continued to sing, almost under his breath.

"…If you do it right…"

Molly felt a blanket being draped over her. Arthur leaned down and kissed her softly, before walking back to the door. He was still humming, whispering the words.

"…Boil you up some hot, strong love…keep you warm tonight…"

The door closed with the tiniest snap, and Molly held herself tightly beneath the blanket Arthur had given her, forcing her tears back.

The Healer had been surprised that with seven children, it had taken her this long to have a relapse. He didn't understand. Seven children hadn't exhausted her; six had.

* * *

Darya laughed aloud at something Ilya had just said. Charlie stood a few feet away, watching her. She was so beautiful, he thought. The sunlight—cold and clear this morning—caught in her hair and turned the brown to gold. They were the only outdoor staff in the preserve—normally, a skeleton crew ran things on weekends. But a Swedish Short-Snout had scale rot, and Ilya had called upon Charlie and Darya to help him Stun the dragon and treat it.

Darya knelt and laced up one of her fireproof boots, still beaming up at Ilya, who was making her laugh again with some story—Charlie had never gotten the hang of Russian. He knew a few words, but not much more. Still, he couldn't help but wish that _he_ was the one making her smile that way, that he had not been such a coward…

He stamped his feet, rubbing his gloved hands together, and approached them.

"You're ready?" asked Ilya, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ve should take care of her."

"Ready," said Darya as she stood up. She smiled nervously at Charlie, who tried to do the same—his mouth was too dry.

"Last time I saw her, she was this way," said Ilya, pointing in the direction of a wooded area. He, Charlie, and Darya all lifted packs of medical supplies onto their backs and set off.

It took a little more than an hour to find the dragon, and when they did, she was in no mood for visitors—they had made the mistake of following her to the location of her nest.

"Duck!" Charlie yelled, flattening himself to the ground and yanking Darya down with him just in time to avoid a jet of blue-white flame.

"Are you all right?" shouted Ilya's voice from across the clearing that the dragon had just scorched.

"Fine!" Charlie shouted. Darya got up, clinging to his arm as she shoved her hair back out of her face. "What do we do?" he asked her; she was a student of dragon breeding, and the general authority on how to deal with nesting mothers.

"I don't think we'll be able to get her out of the clearing," said Darya, poking her head around the tree that she and Charlie hid behind. "Her wings look like they won't work until we treat them—and she won't leave the eggs now she's seen us." She looked at Charlie, thinking hard. "We're going to have to Stun her from here."

"We can't even see her eyes," Charlie said, as Ilya approached, keeping low in the bushes. "If we miss, she'll breathe fire again."

"You're faster with your spells than you think," Darya said, drawing her wand. "We can Stun her—we just have to keep the eggs safe."

"_Da,"_ said Ilya, drawing his own wand. "Ve haff to try."

"Trust me," Darya said, smiling at Charlie. She leaned out from behind the tree again, where the Short-Snout was curled protectively around her nest, her eyes wide open. "On three. One—two—"

"_Stupefy!"_

The dragon gave a roar as the three jets of red light soared directly into her eye—her tail lashed out, smashing through the trees where Charlie, Darya, and Ilya were hidden. All three of them dove out of the way of the falling tree. Charlie spat out a mouthful of dirt, scrambled to his feet, and looked around; the dragon had been subdued. The eggs weren't even cracked.

"Brilliant," he said, just as he heard a moan of pain.

"Charlie!" shouted Ilya.

His heart racing, Charlie ran over to where the tree had fallen. Darya lay on the ground; her leg was pinned under a particularly heavy branch. She was awake, but chalk-white, and she looked furious with herself.

Ilya was near the branch, his wand pointed at it. He shouted something to Darya in Russian, and she nodded. "Charlie, come here," she called to him, holding out her hand. "This is going to hurt."

Charlie did as she said and knelt beside her, taking her hand. She squeezed his tightly, bracing herself. With an almighty crack, Ilya severed the branch that pinned Darya and used a Levitation Charm to send it hurtling twenty feet away.

"Ah," Darya muttered, her eyes closing as the pressure that had undoubtedly been numbing her broken leg disappeared. She swore in Russian, and Charlie felt his hand losing circulation.

"Darya?" Ilya asked, kneeling over her. "I vill take you to the first aid—"

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "What did we do all this for? Go to the dragon!" she said angrily, shoving his shoulder. Then she looked up at Charlie. "You take me."

Their eyes met, and Darya seemed to plead with him. _Come on, Charlie, _he thought. _Come on._

"Sure," he said, placing one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her knees. Darya wrapped her arms around his neck, and Charlie was sure he saw a flash of a smile.

"I'll get her treated, and then come back if you need me," he said to Ilya, who was looking rather put out.

And, purposefully, feeling very pleased indeed, Charlie marched off through the trees with Darya in his arms.

* * *

Ron was just leaving Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes early for the day, preparing to stop by Madam Malkin's to pick up Hermione's new robes. His breath puffed out in the air before him; it was freezing cold, but still it had not snowed. He drew his cloak tighter about him and turned, deciding to hurry through the cold rather than linger in it—and then he smacked straight into someone.

"Ouch! Watch it—oh—"

"Angelina?" Ron asked. He had slammed straight into her, causing her to drop all of the bags she was carrying in her free hand. The other, the one that Greyback had clawed, was in a sling. Ron scrambled to pick up her things while she bit her lip, hard, and took several slow, deep breaths, holding her injured arm. "Blimey, Angelina, I'm really sorry—are you okay? Can I—help you with any of this?"

"I'm fine," Angelina said, forcing a smile. She took the bags from him. "Thanks, Ron."

"Er—how are you?" he asked awkwardly, and she nodded, looking anywhere but his face.

"Fine, thanks—er—sorry, I can't really stay and chat. I'm sort of in a hurry—got to return this gift," she said. She flashed him another hollow smile, glancing up at the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes sign. "See you around." And quickly, she ducked around him, starting off up the street in the opposite direction of the way she had been walking before.

Ron stared after her; the bag she carried came from a store at the far end of the alley, quite a ways from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. He frowned, feeling thoroughly confused. He was going to have to ask Hermione about this.

* * *

"Hermione?" Ginny bit her lip. Hermione was hunched over her Arithmancy book, wearing the expression everyone in Gryffindor House knew was the warning to avoid her at all costs. The common room was mostly empty, for it was quite late. Ginny cleared her throat. "Hermione?"

She looked up, apparently startled out of her concentration, and stared at Ginny for a moment. "Hi."

"Hey," Ginny replied, sitting down opposite her. "I wanted to ask you something."

Hermione blinked, but closed her book, rubbing her eyes in an exhausted sort of way. "Sure, Ginny, what is it?"

"Well…first of all, why are you doing homework the night before we go home?" Ginny chuckled.

"Oh." Hermione looked startled. She glanced down at her closed book, as though she hadn't realized she had been studying. "I was—"

"Reading ahead, yeah," Ginny agreed, smirking at her.

Hermione sighed and stretched, leaning back in her chair. "All right. I'll relax."

"_That_ would be a first," said Ginny, and Hermione smiled.

"What did you want to know, Ginny?"

"Well, I was…I was thinking of going to Diagon Alley, after we get back, to get Harry's Christmas present," she said.

Hermione frowned. "I thought you bought him that scarf? That was lovely—"

"No, I did," Ginny agreed, "But…I don't think that's what I want to give him. It—it doesn't feel right."

Hermione lifted her eyebrows. "It doesn't feel _right_?"

"You know what I mean. He's—I want this to be a special Christmas for him. He deserves it, and a scarf…that's not what I want for him. I feel so stupid for even buying it." She laughed, but Hermione seemed to understand.

"Hm." She drew a slow breath, looking shrewdly at Ginny. "Well…would you like to know what I got Ron?"

Ginny tilted her head to one side. "You bought that broomstick kit, didn't you?"

Hermione waved a hand. "That was a lie," she said. "Parvati and Lavender wouldn't leave me alone about it, so I lied. I think I bought one of those for Harry when we were about fourteen." She leaned forward. "I don't mind telling you, though."

"You don't?"

"Of course not," Hermione told her. She swallowed, blinking quickly. "Last year, Ron and I had a sort of falling out." Ginny opened her mouth to say something, but Hermione kept talking. "It wasn't very pretty, but it happened, and now I understand why it did. Or, I understand it more clearly than I did. Ron and I have talked a lot about it, and…well, here."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of letters, tied together with a red satin ribbon. They were all sealed, but the first one bore Ron's name in Hermione's neat script.

"What are—?"

"There's one for every day that…we fought. It's a lot of things I should have said to him, and didn't. So I wrote them down, not that long ago," said Hermione, who had gone very pink.

"Wow, Hermione…"

"Most of them are apologies. Some of them are things I wanted him to hear from me. Others, I was just angry, remembering things he'd said," she continued. She smiled at Ginny, who handed her the letters again, feeling stunned. "Have I mentioned that he makes me mental?"

Ginny snorted, and Hermione grinned, leaning forward to touch her arm. "I don't know if this is something you really want to hear, Ginny, if it's uncomfortable, but you know I love him, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do," she replied. "And believe me, I've got no problem with it, nor has anyone else in my family. It's a really beautiful gift, Hermione. Ron's going to love it."

"I hope so," said Hermione. "I owe him—a lot." Her eyes seemed to go blank for a moment, and Ginny wondered briefly if she was back at Malfoy Manor. Then she shook her head. "But anyway….none of this really addresses your problem."

Ginny sighed, looking over to the flickering fire, where Evelyn Alistair and Josephine O'Brien, two second year girls, were sharing a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. She lowered her voice. "What do you get for…well, for a boyfriend?"

"A boyfriend?" Hermione repeated, as though she knew that that was not what Ginny wanted to say.

Ginny fidgeted. "You know what I mean." _For a boyfriend who died to save your life, and mine, and everyone else's._ Hermione stared at her, and she sighed heavily. "I can't give him anything like what he's given me."

And then, to Ginny's great annoyance, Hermione laughed. "What?" Ginny demanded.

"Honestly? Oh, for goodness' sake," Hermione said exasperatedly, rummaging through her bag again. She produced another folded-up piece of parchment. "Now, I'm not showing you this, you understand me?"

Ginny frowned, taking the sheet that Hermione held out. "O-okay." She unfolded it—it was a letter from Harry.

"Read the last lines," Hermione said, pointing, and Ginny obeyed.

_By the way, talking about Christmas, I have no idea what to get Ginny. Any ideas? I know this sounds stupid, but I don't think I can give her anything that'll be as good as what she's given me all this time._

_Anyway, let me know if you think of anything. Still got a few weeks left! See you soon, Hermione._

_Harry_

Ginny closed her eyes. "That prat."

"You're both being silly," Hermione said wisely, taking her letter back and folding it. "Harry is going to love anything you give him, Ginny, because he loves you, and you love him. And besides," she added, her smile fading slightly, "We've all lost so much…we'd be fools not to take the gifts we do get."

Ginny's eyes stung with tears, so suddenly it surprised her, and she hurriedly wiped them away. "Bloody hell, Hermione, what did you do that for?"

Hermione beamed through tears of her own. She smiled and rubbed Ginny's arm, which still lay on the table. "Because sometimes even you need to be reminded that we can still be happy."

Ginny stared over at the fire for a moment, composing herself. "I don't know why you put up with me and Harry always badgering you for advice."

Hermione laughed. "That's what I'm here for. Your own personal owl post."

Lightning seemed to strike Ginny's brain. "Yeah…you are," she agreed, though her mind was already a thousand miles away, working furiously.


	6. Chapter 6

Hello, my little Christmas-lings! :) Thank you for all your nice reviews! Hope you're still enjoying! :)

* * *

Why couldn't he just ask her? _Are you all right?_

"Bill?" Fleur asked, smiling at him. "You are looking at me vairy strangely."

"Sorry, pretty girl. I wasn't paying attention," Bill said, shaking his head. They sat at a table in the drawing room of her parents' chateau in the French countryside.

Fleur leaned toward him, lacing their fingers together. "You looked vairy thoughtful. Are you all right?"

_She can do it. Why can't you?_

"Of course," he answered, kissing her fingers.

"Fleur!"

"Gabrielle, ma belle!"

Fleur ran to her sister, who had just come skidding into the room (still wearing her Beauxbatons cloak and robes) with her parents on her heels. Bill chuckled as she leapt into Fleur's arms. He extended his hand to Monsieur Delacour.

"How are you, sir?"

Monsieur Delacour laughed and hugged him. "Such good manners on ze Eenglish gentlemen, ma petite," he laughed to Fleur, who was too busy with a wildly talkative Gabrielle, who clung to her hands as she spoke .

"Bill," said Madame Delacour, approaching him and planting a soft kiss on each of his cheeks. "'Ow are you?"

"Er—_tray bon_," he replied, feeling himself blush bright red.

Madame Delacour beamed at him. "_Tres biens_," she corrected politely, kissing his cheek again. "Eet ees a start, non? We shall 'ave 'im fluent in no time."

Fleur laughed and wrapped an arm around Bill's waist.

Madame Delacour took Gabrielle's hands, pulling her close, and kissed the top of her head. "She was vairy surprised when Madame Maxime told 'er she 'ad to come to 'er office."

Gabrielle laughed something in French, and Fleur smiled. "She thought she was in trouble," she said to Bill.

Madame Delacour bent down and whispered something in Gabrielle's ear. She blushed furiously and hurried forward to give Bill a hug. He grinned and embraced her.

"'Ow do you do?" she asked, pulling back, and he laughed.

"I'm well, thank you," he replied, inclining his head. "I think that's the first English you've ever spoken to me."

Gabrielle blushed furiously again and wrapped an arm around Fleur.

"She 'as been practicing for 'er Eenglish fameely," said Madame Delacour, beaming at Bill. "And 'ow are zey?"

"They're well, thanks," said Bill. "Things have been a little difficult…I imagine Fleur's told you a bit, but…well, it'll be nice to be all together on Christmas."

"We were terribly sorry to 'ear of your bruzzer's loss," said Monsieur Delacour somberly. "'E was a charming boy. Eet was beyond devastating. Please do give our sympathies to your dear parents."

"I will, thanks," Bill said, trying to sound as grateful as possible. Fleur rubbed his arm gently.

"Bill, do you know—I 'ope you weel forgive me—you are looking vairy well," said Madame Delacour, gesturing to the scars on his face.

Bill smiled. "The medicine you sent me was really helpful," he said. "Thank you very much."

"_Maman_," Fleur said, sounding somewhat annoyed.

"I apologize," said Madame Delacour to Bill, before adding, "I only want my daughter's 'usband to be well." She looked at Fleur, who shook her head.

"I do appreciate it," Bill chuckled. "And I don't think I could be in better hands than yours, Madame."

She laughed. "When will you do as I ask and call me Apolline, my dear?"

Fleur took a step closer to her father. "And you used to tell me _I_ flirted too much," she muttered. He clucked his tongue and swatted her arm.

"Maman, j'ai faim," said Gabrielle.

"Of course you are," chuckled Madame Delacour. "Shall we 'ave breakfast?" With a sweeping gesture, she led the way to the dining room. Bill grinned at Fleur and took her hand.

She stopped walking, just as they arrived at the doorway. They were the only people in the hall. "Are you all right?" she asked. "My muzzer—zat was a personal remark—"

"It's fine," Bill promised honestly, frowning at her. She looked terribly uncomfortable. "Look, your mother's an excellent Healer," he said. "She found that medicine for me, she helped—both of us, the other night—"

Fleur looked startled, and Bill knew that she had not missed his near slip. "Yes—I-I know."

He had to tell her—he had to say what he knew—he had to let her know that he was here for her, no matter what— "Fleur, I—"

"Fleur," Gabrielle said, leaning around the door. She seized her sister's wrist. "J'ai _faim_!"

With an expression appropriate to one who had just dodged a curse, Fleur hurried after Gabrielle into the dining room. Bill hung his head, rubbing his face hard for a moment. Then he straightened his shoulders, lifted a smile to his face, and followed them.

"Bill, when does your seester return from school?" asked Monsieur Delacour, who was already passing a plate of eggs around the table. A maid was supervising the pouring out of pumpkin juice and champagne into crystal goblets near one of the room's enormous windows.

"The Hogwarts Express comes in this evening," Bill said, accepting the jam from Fleur. "Harry and Ron will meet her—and Hermione Granger, you might remember her from the wedding—"

"Of course, of course," said Monsieur Delacour. "Charming girls, both charming."

Gabrielle, meanwhile, had dropped her fork. "'Arry _Potter_?" she asked, her eyes lighting up at once.

"Gabrielle," Madame Delacour snapped.

Bill laughed and looked at Fleur, but she avoided his eyes.

* * *

Charlie sat in his chair, sketching an Antipodean Opaleye in flight. He glanced over at his sofa; Darya, her leg bandaged, splinted, and propped up on a cushion, was snoring gently, completely knocked out by various potions. The break in her leg had required a visit to the city's wizarding hospital late into the night, and Charlie, as her escort to the Healers, had taken her back to his flat to sleep off her treatment.

And even so, she looked lovely.

Charlie returned to his drawing; it would be Ginny's Christmas gift, he was fairly certain. He was working on the details of the wings for about twenty minutes before Darya's snores stopped. He looked up. She was blinking blearily, and muttered something in Russian before giving a groan and letting her head drop back on her pillow.

"Darya?" Charlie asked. "Can I get you anything?"

"Vater," she mumbled. Her voice sounded very dry. Charlie got up and poured her a glass, then returned to the couch. He knelt beside her head.

"Here—Darya…"

"Help me up?" she asked sleepily. "I vant to sit…"

Charlie almost chuckled; her accent was much more prominent when she was in this state; normally, she worked hardest at her English of all the trainers he knew. He put the glass down and placed an arm around her shoulders, starting to help her sit up—then she took his hand and placed it around her waist, smiling at him.

"You sit behind me," she said. "I'll lean on you."

Charlie blinked. "O-okay."

"Come on," she said, patting his hand. "Get me up."

Awkwardly, Charlie managed to help her up enough that she could keep her broken leg up on the cushion, but still lean on his shoulder. He squeezed himself in against the arm of the couch, and Darya settled against him, accepting her glass of water. She frowned up at him.

"Have you slept at all?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Vye—why not? I slept."

He laughed, and she smiled again. "I noticed."

"You should have gone to bed," she said reproachfully.

"I—er—I wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, smiling down at her.

"Put your arm around me," she said. Charlie stared at her. "I don't want to lie on your elbow—here, like this." And she draped his arm around her neck, smiling peacefully. "What time is it?"

"About eleven," Charlie told her.

"I haven't slept late on a weekend in a long time," she said, sighing.

"The Healer said it'd be good if you slept," he replied, and Darya nodded.

Just when Charlie thought she was sleeping again, she spoke. "What were you drawing?"

"My little sister's Christmas gift," he said. "The Opaleye."

"Oh," Darya said regretfully, "She was a beautiful dragon. I've never seen scales like that on any of her hatchlings."

Charlie nodded. "She was old."

"Ilya said she was more than one hundred years old," said Darya.

"And still breathing fire at the recruits," he answered, and she snorted.

"Can I see her?" she asked, nodding to the sketchpad.

Charlie smiled. "Can you sit up?"

Darya pulled herself upright enough for him to get up. He seized the notebook and came back; this time, Darya moved a cushion into his lap and lay down. Her hair—tangled and singed from their encounter with the Short-Snout—spilled towards him.

She beamed at the drawing. "Charlie, this is beautiful," she said, touching the dragon's wings. "How do you do this? I've known handlers who could draw—but this is art." She looked upside down at him. "Your sister will love it."

Charlie smiled. The question that had been brewing in the back of his mind ever since last night was becoming more and more irresistible…he wanted desperately to ask her—she was trying to be so honest with him, and he was too cowardly to do the same.

"What is it?" Darya asked, frowning slightly.

"I—the Healer said it'll be about a week before you can go back to work," he said. Darya nodded, looking confused. "Well, it—I mean, you shouldn't be by yourself—if you need anything. Er—_are_ you going to be by yourself? You're not going back to Moscow?"

She shook her head. "There's no one for me to go back to."

Charlie stared at her. "What?"

Darya swallowed, looking rather uncomfortable. "My mother died before I came here. I—I was going to spend Christmas, here, with friends. But most of you are going to your own families."

"Darya, I—"

"It's all right," she said. "I don't talk about it very often."

"My brother died," Charlie blurted out, before he could stop himself.

Darya's eyes warmed, and she took his hand tightly in her own. "I know."

"You do?" he asked, swallowing hard.

She nodded. "You love your family very much—it's not hard to tell you've lost one—especially when you talk about them, pretending they're all back in England, waiting for you."

He gazed at her.

"I'm sorry," she said simply. "I'm sure he was wonderful."

Charlie blinked quickly and sniffed. "You've got no idea." There were a few moments of silence, and he sniffed again. Finally, he looked down at Darya again. She had closed her eyes, but was twirling a strand of hair around her finger—a nervous habit. "Can—can I ask you something?"

"Of course." She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "What is it?"

"Do—um—would you let me—take you to Christmas at my parents'? I—I'd never feel right if I left you here, hurt, and—alone. I want to look after you."

Darya drew a slow breath. For one moment, Charlie was sure she would say no. Then—

"Only if you let _me_ take _you_. We can look after each other. All right?"

"I—I'd really like that," Charlie said honestly. Darya smiled.

* * *

"D'you see them?"

"Maybe if you got your elbow out of my face, I could," Harry spluttered, giving Ron's arm a shove.

"Oh," he said, startled. "Sorry, mate."

Harry snorted and shook his head, trying to peer through the billowing steam that filled the platform around the scarlet train. He removed his glasses and cleaned them; they were fogging.

"Incoming!"

Just as he replaced his glasses, Harry was knocked flat on his back by a flying body with a cloud of thick, red hair. "Ow," he mumbled, for his head had hit the flagstones, but Ginny kissed his cheek gently, beaming down at him.

"Don't be a baby, Potter," she teased, and he laughed, already getting to his feet. He offered Ginny a hand, and she stood, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I really didn't mean to tackle you. Are you all right?" she asked, gently rubbing the back of his head.

"I'll survive," Harry told her. Ginny beamed and kissed him happily.

"Oi!"

"Oh, Ron, honestly—"

Ron had disentangled himself from his and Hermione's own enthusiastic welcome home to glare at Ginny.

"Hello, Ron," she said dutifully, coming to hug him.

"You're a prat," Hermione told Ron matter-of-factly, smacking his arm. She hurried over to hug Harry. "I missed you!"

"Missed you," he replied, hugging her tightly. "You all thought Grimmauld Place was bad during the summer, imagine living there with him."

Ron thumped Harry's arm.

"Where are your trunks?" Harry asked Ginny, rubbing his arm.

"This way." Hermione pointed and took Ron's hand, leading the way to the area where the luggage was being unloaded from the train.

"Harry!" cried Neville, hurrying over.

"Neville, how are you?" Harry asked happily, shaking his hand. "Luna!"

Luna beamed and hugged him. She had cut her hair short from its usual waist length; Harry remembered Ginny mentioning it in a letter—apparently the ends had been burned so badly in May that Luna had decided to cut it all off completely.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" she asked dreamily. "We miss you at school."

"We've missed you as well," said Harry. "Ron and I are starting as Aurors, though—"

"Ooh, I don't—"

Neville cut her off, and Harry was grateful; he still remembered Luna's views on the Rotfang Conspiracy. "That's brilliant, Harry," he said.

"Harry Potter."

They all turned to see Augusta Longbottom, austere and imposing as ever. She extended her hand to Harry, and he shook it. "Wonderful to see you, dear boy, wonderful. Neville, are you ready to leave?"

"Er—yeah," said Neville, looking suddenly uncomfortable. He threw a furtive look at Ginny, who jumped into action. She held up Arnold's cage and moved in front of Mrs. Longbottom.

"Do you remember Arnold, ma'am? From last Christmas?"

"Oh, of course—I do keep meaning to see about finding one of the dear things for myself," said Mrs. Longbottom, absorbed by Arnold, who was rolling around playfully on the floor of his cage.

"You should come to my brother's store—any time, I'll tell him you're interested—"

But Harry and Ron, (though Hermione was physically fighting Ron, for he kept trying to point) were both staring at the intense and obviously private conversation that Neville and Luna were having behind a nearby pillar.

"Leave them alone!" Hermione hissed, before looking at Harry with a positively dangerous expression that plainly said, _You, too._

"Okay, Gran," said Neville happily, grinning in a dazed sort of way as he returned. "Shall we go?"

"What? Oh—yes, let's," said Mrs. Longbottom, distracted from Ginny and her Pygmy Puff. As she and Neville walked away, Luna came floating back to the group, smiling faintly.

"All right there, Luna?" Ginny asked, and she nodded happily.

"Quite all right," she promised. Then, unexpectedly, she gave Ron a hug, and then Harry, and then Ginny and Hermione together. "I've got to Apparate home—Daddy's waiting for me. Goodbye!"

Ron chuckled as Luna trotted off down the platform, her trunk bouncing along behind her. "I'll never get used to her."

Hermione shook her head and put an arm around his waist; Ginny did the same to Harry. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"To the Burrow!" cried Ginny, and they all laughed.

* * *

"Dad?" Percy called, letting himself in the back door. "Mum? Are you home?"

"Percy—shh!"

Percy whirled around, his heart hammering—his father had just come sprinting across the garden from his shed. "Dad?"

He smiled and hugged Percy briefly before peering into the house warily. "Your mum's—"

"Right here, Arthur. Hello, Percy, darling."

"Hi, Mum," Percy said, feeling rather confused as his mother came into the kitchen.

She beamed and hugged him tightly. "You're so thin! What have I told you about skipping meals?"

"I'm fine, Mum," he laughed, making eye contact with his father over her shoulder; he looked oddly upset. Percy frowned. "How are you both? Am I the first one here?"

"You are," said Mum, smiling as she hurried over to the stove and tapped the large cauldron with her wand, "but they'll be home any minute. I lost track of the time, I should've started dinner for you all half an hour ago."

"Here, Molly, let me do that, won't you? You sit and have a chat with Percy," said Dad, hurrying to help her. There was an awkward, tense moment, where he and Mum stared at each other.

Finally, she gave him a rather tight smile and said, "Thank you, dear." Then she turned to Percy. "Would you like something to eat while you're waiting, darling?"

Percy forced a chuckle, feeling very confused and unnerved. "I think I can last," he said.

"Let me make you some tea, then—"

"Already got the kettle on, Molly," said Dad brightly. Percy stared at him as Mum seemed to bite back a sigh of irritation.

"_Thank_ you, Arthur," she said, turning her back on him and smiling again as she took Percy's arm. "Sit down, dear, tell me about your week."

"Er," he said, "Well, not much new, really. I saw Bill—"

"Oh, I heard from him today, he and Fleur are safely at the Delacours," said Mum, nodding as they both settled themselves at the table. "How is work? Is Kingsley doing well? I invited him to Christmas—"

"Work is busy," Percy shrugged. "But I prefer it that way. Kingsley's going on a vacation with—"

"Hestia Jones, that's right!" said Dad, who was supervising a carrot chopping itself into the cauldron. "Sorry, Molly, I forgot to mention that!"

"Oh, dear—I would've invited her, as well," Mum said, looking a little put out.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Mum," said Percy. He was starting to notice that although she had lost a great deal of weight in the last few months, his mother looked particularly thin, and rather pale. There were dark circles under her eyes, and despite her efforts to seem interested and upbeat, she was obviously exhausted. Percy patted her arm, drawing her attention back to him. "I think they've been planning it for a while."

"Maybe so," she said thoughtfully. Then her expression brightened. "It would've been nice to have them, though. Andromeda wouldn't have been so nervous about coming."

"Andromeda—Tonks?" Percy asked, and Mum nodded.

"Teddy _is_ Harry's godson, and—well, she came last ye—"

Percy stiffened slightly, but Dad arrived with the tea tray at that exact moment, so he busied himself with his tea. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen were the bubbling cauldron of soup and the clink of his mother's spoon in her teacup.

Finally, she cleared her throat. "Have you seen your friend recently? The young one—Lucy?"

Percy nodded. "I dropped by St. Mungo's today," he said.

"St. Mungo's?" Mum repeated. "She's not there again, is she?"

"I don't know why, she won't say," he told her. "But she was able to walk around a bit with me, earlier, so she's getting better."

"Well, that's good," said Mum. "I'm sure it's nothing serious—nothing to worry about." For some reason, her eyes flickered to Dad when she said it.

"Her cousin starts work at the Ministry in January," Percy blurted out; he was desperate to avoid the explosion of whatever argument his parents were currently in the middle of.

"Really? In your office?" asked Mum in a distracted sort of voice; she was frowning at Dad, whose back was to them as he struggled with dinner; the chicken seemed to be uncooperative and unwilling to cook properly.

"I—I've got no idea," Percy replied.

"I'm sure he'll be a nice change—Arthur, what are you doing?" she said suddenly, leaping up from her chair, just as the back door flew open, and the entire kitchen exploded into sound.

"We're home!" shouted Ginny, dropping her trunk almost immediately and flying straight into Percy's arms, laughing hysterically. "Percy! Oh, I missed you!"

He laughed, hugging her tightly. "I missed you, Gin—Hermione, how are you?"

"Hi, Percy," she said, moving to embrace him.

"Mummy!" Ginny cried.

"Oh, sweetheart—_where_ is your scarf? It's freezing out!"

"It's not like it's snowing!"

"Harry—"

"Good to see you, Mr. Weasley—"

"What's for dinner, Dad?"

"That's soup, and we're having shepherd's pie—"

"Hasn't it snowed here yet, Mrs. Weasley?"

"Not a flake—what about at Hogwarts?"

"Not for ages!"

Percy shook Harry's hand. "I heard you and Ron passed your exams well," he said, and Harry grinned, but held a finger up to his lips.

"We're going to give Hermione a scare," he said in a low voice, and Percy rolled his eyes.

"All right!" said Mum, clapping her hands. "Any and all people who expect to have a bed to sleep in tonight need to take all pets, luggage, and anything else you've brought into my house upstairs, right now! Girls in Ginny's room, boys in Ron's, _please_," she added, when Harry and Ron seized Ginny's and Hermione's trunks from the haphazard pile that had been deposited near the door. Laughing, the four of them disappeared through the kitchen doorway, and could be heard thundering up the stairs like a herd of centaurs.

Mum gave a little laugh and dropped back against the counter, laying a hand on her chest. She looked at Dad. "They're home, I guess!" Then she spotted Percy, who still stood by the table. "Sweetheart, go put your bag upstairs—I've got your room all ready."

"Oh," said Percy awkwardly, "Well—see, I didn't bring a bag." Mum's smile faded slightly. He took a nervous step forward. "I didn't know if—you know, when everybody arrived—if there—would be room for me."

He saw his father's back stiffen slightly—he turned to look at Percy, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Dad and Mum shared a serious look; they were prepared for this.

"Percy," said Dad, folding his arms, "You're home for Christmas, and we couldn't be happier that you are. That's not conditional on anything. Do you understand?"

Mum blinked, laying a hand on Dad's elbow. "You'll always have your bedroom here, sweetheart. That's never changed."

And the sight of his parents, united despite whatever silly argument they had had, was enough to make a lump rise in Percy's throat. He could see it in his mother's eyes; he had missed many things in the last two years—birthdays—Christmases—Bill's wedding—and his parents had always planned for him to come home. He hurried forward and hugged his mother tightly for a very long moment—he reached an arm out for his father, who joined them. Mum gave a sniff.

Then Percy pulled black, blinking furiously. "How long have I got until dinner?" he asked, swallowing hard.

"Half an hour?" said Mum, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

"Perfect," said Percy, already bounding towards the door. "I'll—I'll be right back!"

His mother laughed, wrapping an arm around Dad's waist as Percy bolted out into the garden and turned on the spot, eager to grab an overnight bag and go home for Christmas.


	7. Chapter 7

This is one of my favorite chapters, guys! Hope you'll leave a note if you like it!

Lucy

* * *

Seven

* * *

"I don't want to tell the children," Molly said, sipping her tea as she turned a page in the Daily Prophet. Arthur shifted slightly on the bed beside her. It was almost one o'clock in the morning; as though to prove to him that she was perfectly fine, Molly had only gone to bed after everyone else in the house had. Now she sat up, drinking tea, as though it were no problem at all that she had dragon pox and needed her rest. Arthur was trying very hard not to become short with her.

"Really, dear?" he asked. He bit back the urge to mention that Percy, Ginny, and Ron—not to mention Harry and Hermione—had all noticed that Molly was not her usual self during dinner.

She nodded. "Since it's nothing serious, I don't think we need to tell them."

Arthur frowned slightly. "Well, Molly—they'll probably notice—"

"I don't think so," she said airily, throwing him a smile. She removed her spectacles, closed up the paper, and drained the mug of tea, setting all three on her bedside table. "I feel much better, I don't think I'll need to sleep much at all. There's no reason to make them worried over nothing."

"The Healer said rest was important," said Arthur, leaning over to turn out his light as Molly did the same.

"I know," she agreed, settling down on her pillows—facing him, so that he would not put his arms around her. "But—well, can't we just keep it to ourselves? Really, it's nothing serious, Arthur."

"It could become serious," he argued.

"No, it can't," Molly replied, gently kissing his forehead and closing her eyes. "Thanks to you and your persistence, I'll be just fine."

Arthur couldn't help but hear a note of biting annoyance in her tone. He stared at her moonlit profile. She looked so thin, and so pale, that he felt a lump rise in his throat. "Molly, I—" he broke off, staring at her.

She opened her eyes again and gazed back at him. "Yes, Arthur?"

"I…I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thank you, dear." With a gentle sigh, Molly closed her eyes and fell almost immediately asleep. Arthur watched her for quite a while, feeling tears sting his eyes.

Why couldn't he just speak to her? Why couldn't he just say the words?_ I am here. I love you, and I know you love me. I want you to always be here. I'm sorry we lost him. I'm sorry we'll be missing him for the rest of our lives together—but as much as it hurts, I want that to be a very, very long time. Please don't close me out. I'm hurt, too._

* * *

"Blimey, that's weird to think of, innit?" Ron asked through a mouthful of bacon. Hermione frowned.

"What is?"

"McGonagall with a family," said Ginny matter-of-factly. She and Harry were looking at the latest copy of the Chudley Cannons magazine together over the breakfast table. "It's certainly not something I would've imagined readily. Doesn't really come across as a family-type, does she?"

"She didn't spring up out of the ground one day and start teaching Transfiguration," said Hermione, offended.

"Well, of course she didn't," said Harry, as Ginny and Ron burst into laughter. "But—I'm with these two. I never imagined her as having any family. I mean—she was really involved with the Order, and everything—"

"That's hardly a reason to think she's got no one in the world," snapped Hermione. "Look at your parents—they were married! And the Weasleys, too! Dumbledore had a brother, Kingsley had Hestia—"

"Hermione's just sour that she didn't know her favorite teacher had a whole life outside of Hogwarts," Ginny snickered, and Hermione aimed a half-hearted kick at her under the table. "What's wrong with you, Ron?"

He had frozen in the act of biting into a piece of bacon and now stared, looking rather disgusted, into space. "What if she's married?"

Harry choked, and Ginny's jaw dropped as Hermione rolled her eyes and said, "She is not married. I'm sure that would've come up, considering I was hearing about her whole family! And don't you think we would've found out by now if she was?"

"Not necessarily, Hermione—she's pretty private about that kind of thing," said Harry.

Ron's eyes widened even more. "What if Dumbledore—"

"No," said Hermione loudly, and she was pleased to hear Harry and Ginny chime in their agreement.

"What?" Ron asked, sounding startled at their vehemence.

"Don't worry about it," said Ginny, getting up and taking her plate to the frying pan for more eggs.

Hermione glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Is it really eleven o'clock?"

"Feels good to sleep in, doesn't it?" asked Ginny blissfully, coming to sit down next to Harry again and leaning over the page he was reading.

"What are we doing today?" asked Ron, staring out the window. Hermione followed his gaze; the outside world looked very cold, but was clear and sunny, fully ignoring the date and season.

"I was thinking you four could find our Christmas tree and take care of some of the shopping," said Mrs. Weasley absently. She came wandering into the kitchen, reading a letter with a slight frown on her face. "And maybe drop by the shop, find out when Georgie wants to come home so I'll have his bed ready."

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair; Hermione frowned at him, but he shook his head slightly.

"Who's the letter from, Mum?" asked Ginny; Hermione noticed that she and Harry were now sitting considerably farther apart than they had been just a few moments before.

"Your brother—er—Charlie," said Mrs. Weasley, folding it up at last and removing her spectacles. "One of his coworkers was injured the other day, and she's got no one to go home to for Christmas. He wants to bring her home with him. Hmm…I suppose I could find her some space—let me think…if I put George in his room—Bill and Fleur—"

"Er—Mum?" said Ron. "I—I think George might be more comfortable on the couch."

There was a ringing silence in the kitchen. Hermione didn't even breathe, though she closed her hand on Ron's beneath the table.

"Oh," said Mrs. Weasley, her voice suddenly sounding rather high-pitched. "Do you think so? Well—well, that might—that might work out. Darya—she could have that room, so she can rest a bit."

Hermione stared at Ron, who now looked very, very uncomfortable.

"Percy and Charlie can share, that way—yes, I—I think we'll manage it," said Mrs. Weasley, hurrying over to the countertop. "Have you all eaten enough?"

"Yes, thank you," said Hermione immediately; both she and Ginny leapt to their feet and collected the plates that were still on the table. "It was really delicious."

"Mum, d'you—have a list or anything?" Ron asked. He and Harry had gotten up as well, both wearing helpful expressions.

"I definitely need to do some Christmas shopping," said Ginny, as Hermione flicked her wand and the dishes began doing themselves.

"We're happy to buy anything you need, Mrs. Weasley," said Hermione. She turned around. Mrs. Weasley was looking a little tearful again—but she was smiling.

"Oh, thank you all so much—I—I really only need a gift for Teddy—I've made him a sweater," she said, sniffing, "But it's his first Christmas, I want to get him something special."

Harry nodded. "I need to get him a gift, too," he said. "I'll find something for him."

"And you want a tree, Mum?" Ginny asked. She and Hermione were already pulling hats, gloves, scarves, and cloaks.

"That's all that's missing, I think," said Mrs. Weasley. She was now rummaging through a cupboard, looking for something. She pulled down a coffee can and peered inside.

"Ron and Harry can manage it," said Hermione.

"There's a place selling trees at the end of Diagon Alley, isn't there?" Ron asked Harry, who nodded.

"All right, then," said Mrs. Weasley, producing a small, golden key from the coffee can. She handed it to Ron. "You remember our vault number? Tell them your name—they might let you move up the queue because of Bill, all right?"

"We'll be back with everything, Mum," Ginny promised, hugging her.

"Do drop by the shop and see George, won't you?" asked Mrs. Weasley, kissing Hermione's cheek as she shuffled them all to the door.

"And find out when he's coming home," said Hermione, "of course."

"Thank you, dear—Ronnie, put that scarf on properly!" Mrs. Weasley called; Ron and Harry were already halfway to the gate.

Hermione glanced worriedly at Ginny as they caught up to the boys; she knew she was not alone in noticing Mrs. Weasley's odd behavior.

* * *

"Can you both manage it?" Ginny asked. They were at the Christmas tree stall, having just purchased a particularly large specimen, and she and Hermione held the packages containing All of their day's purchases. Ginny had suggested that she and Hermione visit George and purchase a Pygmy Puff for Teddy as their last errand, while the boys took the tree home.

"No problem," Ron spluttered through a mouthful of pine needles; he and Harry were fighting to keep the Christmas tree standing long enough so that they could Disapparate with it.

"It's just tricky, trying to do that with something this big," said Hermione.

Ginny snorted. "Well, unless Ron and Harry are going to come back with full beards of pine needles, I say we let them do it, Hermione." Hermione bit her lip, looking nervous, and Ginny felt a twinge of impatience. "Come on, they can handle it."

"We probably can't," said Harry honestly, and Ginny threw him a dirty look. "But we're willing to try!" he added brightly.

Ginny hooked her hand around Hermione's elbow. "Come on, Hermione—Got to get Teddy's Pygmy Puff."

Hermione looked very reluctant, so Ginny gave her arm a shake and raised her eyebrows significantly.

"Oh," she said, finally understanding. "Right—um, good luck!" She linked her arm with Ginny's and began hurrying away up Diagon Alley.

"Bye," said Harry, sounding confused. "We'll see you at the Burrow later!"

Ginny heard Ron mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "Girls," but she ignored it for now. "I know what I'm getting Harry, and I need you to help me," she said to Hermione, as they dodged around crowds of busy Christmas shoppers."

"Of course," panted Hermione, barely keeping up with her. "What is it?"

"You'll see—here." Ginny stopped before the shop window. Hermione looked up.

"Oh, Ginny…"

"I want to get him an owl," she said in a great rush. "I've got just enough money for it." She bit her lip, staring at Hermione, who seemed lost for words. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

Hermione blinked once, and gave her a smile. "Where will we keep it until Christmas?" she asked.

Ginny shrieked and threw her arms around Hermione. "I knew you'd like it! I think Dad might let me keep it in the shed."

Hermione smiled. "All right. What kind?" she asked, pushing open the door of Eeylops' Owl Emporium.

"I was sort of thinking I'd know it when I saw it," said Ginny, as an employee, carrying a huge bag of dead mice, approached them.

"Welcome—all of our Owl Treats and cages are half off for the day," he said, looking harried; the shop was very full of people clamoring to buy pets.

"I'm looking for an owl," said Ginny, "hopefully—well, for less than three Galleons?"

"You want these ones," said the employee, pointing at the shelf full of birds on perches behind him. "Small but sturdy, we say."

Ginny's face fell; there was not a very wide selection. "Like Pigwidgeon," said Hermione bracingly.

She nodded, feeling rather disappointed. "Thank you."

"Say," said the employee suddenly, staring at Hermione, "Aren't you—?"

Ginny seized Hermione's arm and yanked her away, ducking behind a crowd of witches who were cooing over a white kneazle and her kittens.

"Thanks for that," Hermione whispered, as she crouched down; Ginny peered over the heads of the crowd. The employee gave up looking for Hermione and walked off the feed the owls. "I keep forgetting we aren't in Hogsmeade—at least there they've stopped all this nonsense."

"Did you see the looks Harry was getting at the tree stall?" Ginny asked, and she nodded.

"Of course—Ron says it's impossible trying to work in the store because people keep cornering him."

"It's weird," Ginny agreed fervently. Then she smirked. "But that's your problem."

"Oh, thanks," said Hermione, straightening up at last and rolling her eyes. "Come on, let's get Harry his owl and get out of here before somebody else sees us."

"Sees you," Ginny corrected, and Hermione elbowed her. She glanced down at her watch. "We should get back soon, anyway."

"See anyone you like?" Hermione asked, gesturing at the owls, most of whom were sleeping on their perches. A few ruffled their feathers and turned tail on Ginny as she looked at them.

A sudden, loud hoot drew her attention; a small, gray owl with a few faint, white speckles was pressed up against the small screen on the front of his perch, her enormous eyes fixed on her. She gave another extraordinarily loud hoot, and Ginny laughed.

"Hello," she said, extending a finger to brush against the soft feathers that were poking through the screen because the owl squeezed herself against it so hard. "Hello, there—"

"She's so cute," said Hermione, bending down beside her. "Oh, Ginny, I love her—"

"Oh, she's a lovely owl, that's a brilliant choice."

Ginny tried not to laugh; the employee had found them, and was gazing straight at Hermione. He pushed his hair back with one hand. "Yeah, takes a good eye to notice her," he said.

Ginny snorted.

"My friend wants to buy her," said Hermione briskly. "How much?"

"She's five Galleons," said the employee. "That's a pretty good rate, too—people like her breed, you see—but she never lost her juvenile coat, and they all think she's too young to be a good post owl. So she's on discount."

Ginny's heart sank. She leaned closer to Hermione. "I—I haven't got five—I've only got enough for three and a cage."

The owl beside her gave a dismal little hoot.

"How about three?" said Hermione immediately. Then, awkwardly, she placed a hand on her hip, and, for some reason inexplicable to Ginny, leaned against the wall, batting her lashes at the employee. "Three, and we'll get a cage?"

Ginny had to fake a coughing fit in her hand when the young man turned bright red and stammered, "S-sure—I—I think—that'd be okay."

"Oh, wonderful," gushed Hermione, brushing her hand against his arm. She turned to Ginny, lifting her eyebrows. "Well, pay him, Ginny."

Her eyes full of tears as she choked back laughter, Ginny counted out three Galleons and eight Sickles, which the scarlet-faced employee took in his trembling hand. He returned moments later with a cage, and tucked the little owl safely inside it before handing it regally to Hermione. He gave her an idiotic grin.

"Thank you so much, er—?" she asked, and Ginny actually had to turn away, she was laughing so hard.

"Thomas," he said at once.

"Thomas," Hermione repeated, beaming at him. "Thank you, really—you just gave Harry Potter a wonderful Christmas gift."

Thomas turned white as chalk, and Hermione walked away. Ginny hurried after her, laughing hysterically. As the shop door swung shut behind them, he could be heard shouting, "That was Hermione Granger! That was Harry Potter's Christmas present!"

"Keep running," Ginny said, giving Hermione a shove, and they darted around the corner, where they collapsed, giggling, onto a public bench. Ginny elbowed Hermione, grinning. "'Why would Viktor Krum ever want to go to the Yule Ball with me?'" she said. "'I have no idea how to talk to boys!'"

Hermione's cheeks turned pink as she lifted the cage up and peered in at the little owl, who seemed ecstatic to be out of the shop. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Ginny hugged her tightly. "That was amazing, Hermione, thank you." It was no small feat for Hermione to willingly take advantage of the celebrity she possessed; she said, and Ginny fully agreed with her, that it was wrong to do so.

She shrugged; her conscience seemed to be getting to her.

"You know Fred would've liked that," Ginny said, and she laughed. "And Tonks, too."

"She would've gotten it down to two Galleons and a second owl, just because she could."

"Oh, definitely," Ginny agreed, getting up and taking the cage. She looked in at the little owl, who hopped closer to the bars and pressed her face right up beside Ginny's, staring intently at her. "I wonder what Harry will call you."

Hermione picked up the other packages and stood. Ginny felt her throw an arm around her shoulders, and looked up to smile at her.

"I know you're anxious about seeing Mrs. Tonks," said Hermione. "And I know you haven't told him yet…but I think it's time you talked to Harry."

"About what?" Ginny said, pretending to become absorbed with the owl again.

"You know what," said Hermione. She was the only person who knew that Ginny had been with Tonks in her final moments—that she had heard Tonks' last words. Remembering her with Hermione felt good, natural—it was harder to talk about her with anyone else, even with Harry.

But, at last, when Ginny said nothing, Hermione let the matter drop. "Why don't we go to George's store and find Teddy a little something for Christmas?" she suggested, and Ginny felt a lump rise in her throat. "We can share whatever it costs, and we'll see George."

Ginny nodded. "All right." She looked down at the owl in the cage, who was flapping her wings and hooting merrily. "Come on, you."

* * *

The bell on the door dinged, and George swore internally; he hadn't been quick enough to lock up. "We're closed!" he shouted, without turning from the shelf he was stocking.

"The door's unlocked, you prat!"

George frowned and stuck his head out over the railing; down in the middle of the lower floor stood Ginny, who beamed up at him.

"What, did you forget I existed?" she demanded.

"What are you doing here?" he asked incredulously, hurrying down the stairs and hugging her.

"The Hogwarts Express came in last night—"

"Hermione!" George cried, as she walked in, too. He hugged her.

"Did you forget?" Ginny asked, laughing. "Did you read any of my letters, George?"

"I—of course I did," he lied. "I just—lost track of the calendar—blimey, it's good to see you two—"

"It's good to see you," said Ginny, hugging him again. "I missed you like mad."

"Have you two been in the alley all day?" George asked.

"Harry and Ron were with us," said Hermione, who was scrutinizing him a little too closely. He walked away, leading Ginny by the hand to the Wonderwitch display. "Your mum wanted a Christmas tree."

George swallowed. "Oh—right. Here, Hermione—you remember those daydream charms? Look what I've done—these are for when you go to sleep—they'll give you a good dream for the whole night, guaranteed—" He lifted the box off the shelf and showed it to her. "Really popular with little kids who're scared of monsters or something."

"Wow, George," she said. "That's—that's really clever—" George did not miss the look she shared with Ginny, and cursed himself; why had he chosen that new product?

"How's Angelina?" Ginny asked brightly. "I haven't heard from her in a few weeks."

George stared between them, his mouth open slightly. Ron hadn't told them? Then, suddenly, he realized that he'd hesitated too long. "Oh, she's great," he said. "Fine, yeah—er, she's really busy."

"Right," said Ginny slowly. Hermione put the box back on the shelf. "Er—listen, we were looking for something for Teddy."

"Oh," said George, trying to sound upbeat. "Er—I don't have a lot of stuff for kids his age…"

"I was thinking, maybe a Pygmy Puff?" Ginny asked. "They're soft, they can't bite, and they're pretty tough."

Hermione nodded. "Harry would probably take care of it, so Andromeda wouldn't have to—but we thought Teddy would like it. Have you got any?"

"Yeah," said George, putting on a cheery smile. "Definitely. What color?" He started down the stairs, and the girls followed him.

Ginny beamed. "He's always turning his hair blue—any chance you've got one of those?"

"Just one," said George, leaning over the cage and drawing the little Pygmy Puff out. "I'd keep it away from that bloke, though," he said, nodding to the owl in the cage that Ginny carried.

She pretended to be offended. "She wouldn't hurt a toadstool!"

"Looks like a killer if I ever saw one," said George, smirking; the tiny owl was nibbling on one of the bars of her cage, giving muffled hoots. He petted the little blue Pygmy Puff in his hand. "Who's she for? You hate owls."

"I don't hate owls," said Ginny.

"You hate owls?" asked Hermione. "Why?"

"I don't hate owls!"

"Errol used to scare her to death, when we were kids," George explained. "Don't have any idea why."

"Could it be because you and Fred locked him in my room while I was sleeping?" Ginny laughed, smacking his shoulder.

George felt his grin falter. He moved to put the Pygmy Puff in a little basket. "Well, here—"

"Yes, how much, George?" asked Hermione, stepping forward with her money out.

"No charge," he insisted. "Just—tell the kid it's from me, too, okay?"

"Tell him yourself, Mrs. Tonks is bringing him to Christmas," Ginny said, shoving his shoulder. "By the way, Mum wants to know when you're coming home—Charlie's bringing a _girlfriend_—"

"She wants to have room for everybody," said Hermione, much more diplomatically.

George stared at her. "Er—well—you know, I just don't know yet. I—er, I think I've got some shipments coming in—couple more puffskeins, things like that, and I'll need to sign for them—" He was fully aware that neither Ginny nor Hermione believed this, and that both were staring at him curiously.

"Look," he said, "Tell Mum I'll send a note as soon as I know."

"You'll be there, won't you, George?" asked Ginny, sounding very unlike herself. Her eyes were wide with worry.

"Of course," he lied yet again. "Of course I will." Ginny frowned at him. She was not stupid; she and Hermione both knew exactly what he was thinking, he could tell. "I hate to kick you two out," he said uncomfortably, "But I've got some bills and things to take care of. I've gotten behind on owl orders, that kind of thing."

Ginny opened her mouth to ask another question, but Hermione laid a hand on her arm. "Okay," she said gently. "We'll see you in a couple of days, George. Come on, Ginny."

"Thanks for the Puff," said Ginny, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

George nodded once. He turned to the register and rapped it with his wand; the till popped open, and he began collecting the coins.

But he watched out of the corner of his eye as Hermione and Ginny left the shop and disappeared into the dark street.


	8. Chapter 8

WOO! Party people, we are chugging right along! (By the way, for anyone keeping track, I am one time zone later than usual at the moment - FAMILY VACATION BAHHHH)

* * *

"Good morning, Mina," Fleur sang. The elderly little witch turned, and her expression burst into a brilliant smile.

"Fleur! Oh, my little one!"

"I wanted to come and see you last night," said Fleur, kissing her cheeks as they embraced. "I couldn't get away from the table before you'd gone home."

"Never mind that, never mind that," said Mina, looking positively overwhelmed with happiness as she held Fleur's hands. "Oh, let me look at you—you are so beautiful! But where is your husband?"

"He hasn't woken yet," said Fleur. "How is yours?"

"Jacques is the same as ever, grumpy and old," Mina joked, turning back to the breakfast she was cooking. "You must introduce me to William."

"I will—you should call him Bill, everyone does," said Fleur. Mina chuckled, flicking her wand so that the fresh fruit began chopping itself.

"Out of you and little Gabrielle, I would never have picked you to marry an Englishman," she teased, and Fleur laughed. "Sit down, my darling, I'll make you some coffee."

Fleur smiled and seated herself; Mina—Dominique, though Fleur had not been able to pronounce that name as a child—had worked in her parents' house for many years. The housekeeper had been a second mother to her, and was the only reason Fleur knew how to cook—Apolline was a dreadful chef and acknowledged it wholeheartedly.

"So," said Mina, placing a cup of coffee before her. "How is married life? You've had a strained year, haven't you, darling?"

"It was difficult," Fleur agreed. "But…"

"You're coming out of it stronger than ever, I imagine," said Mina sagely, nodding as she arranged a platter of poached eggs. "I know how that goes, my love."

Fleur shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"Your parents brought me pictures of the beautiful wedding," Mina continued, her back to Fleur. "I was so sorry I could not make it."

"I barely wanted Mother and Father bringing Gabrielle so close to the danger," Fleur insisted. "You know the night of our wedding was the night the English Ministry fell?"

Mina nodded gravely. "Terrible, just terrible. Pierre was so worried about Gabrielle."

Fleur smiled. "Of course—how is Pierre? And all the others?"

"The many grandchildren I can no longer keep track of?" Mina laughed. "They are all quite well, and so are their parents—only two left out of Beauxbatons, and one about to leave! I can hardly believe it. You will have to have a child soon—I miss having babies in the house!"

Fleur's stomach twisted unpleasantly, and she lowered her coffee cup into its saucer with a sudden clatter. Mina looked around, frowning, but—

"Fleur?"

She jumped up. "That's Bill," she said, putting on a brilliant smile. "One moment." She hurried to the kitchen door and peered out into the dining room, where one of the maids was raising the blinds. Bill was looking around for her. "Over 'ere," she said, waving at him.

"I thought I heard your voice," he said, grinning. He kissed her. "Good morning."

"Good morning, chére. Zere is someone I want you to meet—come wiz me."

She led him by the hand into the kitchen, where Mina was wiping her hands on her apron. "Bill, zis is Mina—Dominique Moreau."

"You're Mina!" Bill said, shaking her hand happily. "It's so nice to finally meet you!"

"He says it's nice to meet you, and that I talk about you too much," Fleur translated, winking at her, and Mina chuckled. Though she was a head and a half shorter than him, she placed her hands on either side of Bill's face and pulled him down to kiss his forehead.

"Those scars are marks of pride," she said to Fleur in French, turning back to the stove. "I hope you know that right there, you have a brave husband who will not flee from any trouble you give him—and you are capable of quite a lot of that, miss."

"What'd she say?" Bill asked out of the corner of his mouth, for Fleur was silent for a moment. She had to swallow a lump in her throat before turning to smile at Bill, who had noticed her reaction to Mina's words.

"She says she theenks you are vairy 'andsome," she said. "And brave."

Bill blinked. He looked at Mina. "Er—mare-see, Madame."

Mina chuckled and patted his cheek, flicking her wand and levitating a heavy tray full of dishes and silverware into the dining room. Just as she disappeared through the door, Fleur heard her say, "Good morning, Madame."

"Good morning, Mina—where is Fleur? Oh—"

Apolline appeared in the kitchen doorway, but stopped. She met Fleur's eyes briefly before beaming at Bill. "Good morning, Bill. Did you sleep well?"

"Really well, thank you," he said graciously.

"Oh, good, good," said Apolline. "I wonder eef I might speak to Fleur for a moment before we eat?"

"Of course," said Bill, relinquishing his hold on Fleur's waist; she swallowed hard. She knew what was coming.

"Come wiz me, petite," said Apolline, beckoning Fleur after her. They crossed the dining room and through the hall until they arrived in her mother's study; a small, bright room with many books and stacks of papers everywhere. One might not believe Apolline capable of it, but she was quite disorganized.

"Ees everytheeng—all right, Maman?" Fleur asked.

"French, please, Fleur," said her mother sharply. "I do not wish to embarrass your husband." She turned away from the window and faced Fleur. "I gather, from our conversations yesterday, that you haven't spoken to Bill about the matter we discussed this week."

"Well—no, that's not quite true, Mother," said Fleur evasively. "It's just that—I haven't gotten the chance to…" She trailed off under her mother's glare.

Apolline raised one hand and pointed at the door of the office. "The man that I spoke to last night is one who believes himself to be responsible for his wife's unhappiness. It is plain to me and to your father—if not to you."

"That's not fair, Mother," Fleur began, but Apolline cut her off.

"What is unfair is keeping Bill in the dark because you believe he is capable of doing something he will _never_ do," she said.

Fleur felt her tears rising. "You don't understand, Mother—we aren't like you and father—we might not ever have belonged together! We were scared, there was a war—and I love him, I do—but I'm afraid that now he's beginning to find reasons that this should never have happened between us—that his mother was right all along."

"I do not understand you, Fleur." Her mother rubbed her eyes, looking very angry, but fighting to remain calm. "You are talking yourself out of every truth you know, and everything you have come to learn about Bill and his family. You fear him running from you, and yet this behavior of yours is pushing him away. Do you think that, perhaps, he has come to fear the same of you? It would not surprise me."

"N-no," Fleur said. "I—I would never do that to him! He knows—"

"Afford him the same courtesy, then, Fleur," snapped Apolline, looking fearsome once again.

Fleur lifted her chin, wiping her tears away. "You don't understand, Mother." She strode to the door. "I'm sorry. You don't."

"You asked my advice, you involved me, and you had no choice but to hear me," replied Apolline calmly. "I could not make you do what I say, but I could at least make you hear me. Now I am done. Do what you want, Fleur."

Fleur stared at her. Then she marched out the door, letting it close with a loud bang behind her.

* * *

"God aduther wud, Giddy," said Harry. He was holding his nose tightly with one hand as he passed boxes full of Christmas decorations down the attic stairs to Ginny, who stood in Ron's room below. The Weasleys' ghoul—who had long since been restored to his normal form, though he reeked as badly as ever—was lurking a few feet away, grumbling at the intrusion into his space.

"I think that's probably the last one, Harry," she said. "We don't have that many."

"Good," Harry mumbled. He was beginning to get lightheaded from the smell. "Ibe cubbing dowd." He hurried down the ladder, still holding his nose, and rapped it once with his wand. It folded up into the ceiling once again, and he heard a gurgle of delight from the ghoul.

"Thank you," Ginny said, kissing him and wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I don't know if there are enough decorations for the tree," Harry said. "It's massive—there are only four boxes here, three of them have tinsel…"

"We can manage," Ginny said, turning a little pink.

"Sorry," Harry said, horrified with himself. "I didn't mean—"

"I know," she said, smiling.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly. This was one of the only chances they had had to be alone since she had arrived, but he had not missed the fact that when she thought no one was looking, Ginny was unusually quiet and withdrawn. "I know it's—a difficult time."

Ginny laughed softly, and as he often did when they talked about him, Harry saw a reflection of Fred in her eyes. "You're sweet—I'd tell you if it was that…"

"But?" Harry asked, frowning at her.

Ginny swallowed and went to the door, poking her head out on the landing. Downstairs, Ron and Hermione could be heard having an argument. Harry snorted, and she rolled her eyes as she shut the door again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Harry said, sitting down on his bed. She joined him, drawing a breath.

"There—well, there's something—I've meant to tell you—" Ginny shut her eyes, gritting her teeth as she looked away from Harry; he knew that look. She was trying not to cry. Awkwardly, he reached out and took her hand.

"It's okay, Ginny—just tell me," he said. "It'll be okay."

She swallowed, heaving a sigh. "Have you noticed that—my parents are acting really strangely?" she blurted out.

Harry stared at her blankly. "What?"

"Er—my mum. She's…been sort of odd since we got home, don't you think?" Ginny asked. That was not at all what Harry had expected to hear.

"I guess," he said slowly. "I think she's probably a little…upset. I mean, things aren't easy right now." He stared at her; he had the distinct impression that this was not what Ginny had wanted to say, but she would not meet his eyes. "Ginny…"

"Ginny, darling! Where are the ornaments?"

"Coming, Mum!" Ginny called, leaping up. She looked at Harry, beaming. "I just—I worry about her, you know?" she said. "I wanted to make sure I wasn't imagining things." She took his hand. "Thanks."

"Sure," Harry said, feeling very much in the dark. He did not understand what had just happened—though he did know that Ginny had spent more time worrying about Mrs. Weasley than was even imaginable. It was Ginny who had watched her, over the summer, turn into someone that the rest of the Weasleys—and Harry and Hermione—had barely been able to recognize. It was Ginny who had managed to bring her back to reality, as well.

Harry had an idea that only he (of course, she would never have said such a thing to Hermione) knew that Ginny had been considering staying home from Hogwarts in September.

Even so—despite the fact that Ginny was very honest with him about everything that bothered her—he could sense that at this moment, she was not telling the truth. "Ginny, are you sure that's all—?"

"Ginny!"

"Come on," she said, grinning at him as she flicked her wand, levitating a few of the boxes before her. "Let's get these things downstairs."

* * *

Lucy was sleeping when Percy arrived at the hospital to see her; when the ward nurse saw him, she whispered that Lucy had just left a treatment room. He sighed, a little disappointed, but waved his wand to conjure a vase full of water, and then placed the bouquet he had brought with him inside it. Then he propped up against it the card he had written her, and turned to leave.

"Not so fast, Weasley."

Percy smiled. "Go back to sleep."

"You've never brought me flowers," Lucy mumbled, her eyes only half open as she gazed at the small arrangement he had given her. "What's the occasion?"

"An apology," Percy said.

"What for?" she asked curiously.

"I'm sorry I doubted you," he replied. "You were right all along. I was being stupid."

"Family talked some sense into you, hm?" Lucy asked, and Percy nodded. "It's about time someone did. Now all that's left on my to-do list is to get you and Audrey together, and I'll feel like I've done everything I needed to take care of."

"We'll see," Percy told her, though it was only to make her feel better; she was obviously in pain at the moment. His heart sank. He had been so selfish in this friendship—he had to at least try to put it right, somehow. She may have acted much older, but the truth was, Lucy was only sixteen, and had been much more his friend than he had been hers. "I really am sorry, Lucy. For more than—what I just said."

"We'll talk about it later," she said tiredly, smiling at him. "We will…but I need to sleep."

Percy nodded. "Do you want me to leave?"

Lucy shook her head. "Stay a little while…I'll be asleep soon."

* * *

The bedroom door opened, and Molly jolted awake. She lay on her own bed with a pile of wrapped gifts in her lap. "Oh! Arthur, you startled me."

Arthur smiled slightly, closing the door behind him and sitting down beside her. "I didn't mean to, dear. Were you resting?"

"No, no, goodness, no," Molly said, looking at her watch; it was nearly time for her to start dinner. "I was putting away some of the Christmas presents—" And then she had decided to close her eyes for just a moment…

"Have you had your potion today?" Arthur asked, frowning, and she nodded.

"It's almost time for another," she said. "Here—help me hide these, would you?"

"They're not little anymore, Molly," Arthur chuckled, taking several gifts. "We could just leave them under the tree."

"As long as I live, my children will be surprised on Christmas morning," she smirked. "Do you remember the first year Bill had a wand? He opened all the presents and then sealed them up again?"

Arthur laughed, tucking the wrapped packages she handed him into the back of the closet. "I think they've all done that at one time or another."

"Not if I can help it," Molly grumbled. Arthur straightened up and kissed her. She smiled. "Did you get the shopping done?"

"All done," he told her, holding up a bag full of yarn. "The colors are exactly perfect. I had about four different people check."

Molly hugged him. "Arthur, darling—I know I've—"

"Mum! Where's the star for the tree?" shouted Ron's voice from somewhere downstairs. "Ginny can't find it anywhere!"

Molly sighed, shaking her head as she went to the door. "It's probably right in front of them—come on, Arthur, I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Molly," he said, catching her arm. "Didn't—weren't you going to say something?"

Molly looked into his eyes; her nerve had vanished. She could not face this dragon—not right now. "Oh—nothing, dear," she lied. "Just—Charlie said that he and his friend Darya will be here in time for dinner. I'd better get cooking." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "You wash up, change your clothes, and I'll have your tea ready in no time."

Arthur looked deeply troubled, but kissed her back and said, "Don't forget your potion."

Molly felt her heart wrench. She nodded once and hurried downstairs, where Ginny, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were sorting the boxes full of decorations. Or, rather, Ginny and Hermione were sorting the decorations by first hanging them on the boys. Harry's glasses and messy black hair were just visible beneath many garlands of tinsel, and he held in his lap a large bowl full of Christmas ornaments.

"We found it," Ron said sheepishly. Molly started; he was decked out similarly to Harry, trapped in the rocking chair. Hermione had placed the tree star on top of his head, and currently had her back to him as she cut the few overgrown limbs on the very large Christmas tree. "Sorry."

Molly shook her head. "You both look very nice," she teased. "Can I get all of you to help me with dinner, please? Charlie will be here soon. Just put aside the tinsel for a moment, Ginny, you can finish later."

Ginny looked terribly disappointed, but began helping to free Harry from his prison.

* * *

Hermione shivered, hugging herself tightly as she gazed up at the clear, cloudless sky. The moon and stars seemed to glow more brightly silver in the cold night air. She released a long, slow breath and watched as it made a foggy cloud before her.

"Hey, Hermione."

She felt the tingle of warmth she always did when Ron said her name, and turned to smile at him.

"You all right?" he asked, and she nodded, holding her arms out to him. He smiled and came to embrace her, looking up at the crescent moon as well.

"I just wanted to get out for a bit," Hermione murmured. "I guess Charlie didn't explain to Darya what he meant when he said that his little brother was friends with Harry Potter."

Ron snorted. "She feels right at home."

"We can only answer the questions so many times," Hermione said. "I know she's not being rude, and I don't feel insulted…I'm just tired. I didn't mean to abandon you both, though."

"It bothers you, to be recognized," Ron said, and Hermione squeezed his hand.

"You know the answer to that," she said. "I don't mind being recognized—they do it because we're Harry's friends—because we disappeared with him. But I just don't want to be glorified, like we're somehow…more important than—than everyone who didn't make it."

Ron nodded. "I know." Hermione felt a lump rise suddenly in her throat, and hugged him a little more tightly. "I miss them all, too," he told her.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, sniffing. "It's not fair for me to—to get upset—"

"Hermione, why do you keep saying things like that?" Ron asked sharply. She blinked, staring at him. "You—you keep making it sound like—you don't deserve any kind of—I don't know—gratitude, or like you didn't suffer enough. I don't get it."

"What are you—?"

"Don't get angry," Ron said, and Hermione felt her cheeks heat up at once, opening her mouth to argue. "I'm just saying that—you don't give yourself enough credit—you're not dealing with every bloody thing that we all went through. Everything _you_ went through, Hermione—you got tortured—your parents are still in hiding—we _all_ nearly died at Hogwarts, more than once—and now all I ever hear, when I try to remind you that you're as—as brave as all that—you just brush it off. You say somebody else hurt more than you did, or something."

Hermione took a step back and stared at him. "A lot of people have a lot more to grieve for than I do, Ron. Including you and your family."

"Hermione, I'm not saying that isn't true," Ron pleaded. Part of Hermione's brain was telling her that she needed to back down from this argument immediately, but she continued to glare at him. "But you had a rough time of it, too, as much as anybody, and it bothers me to hear you—pretend like it never happened!"

"What do you want me to say?" she demanded, flinging her arms out to her sides. "What, do you want me to burst into tears at the drop of a hat? Do you want me to cry about one thing or another all day long? That's _appalling_ behavior! I don't need everyone around me to know what I feel, whenever I feel it!"

"I want to know you feel _something_!" Ron retorted angrily, and Hermione stiffened. She could feel the color leave her face, and she knew that Ron could tell he'd said something terrible. "Her—Hermione, that's not—"

"Not what you meant," she finished quietly, clenching her jaw. She nodded once. "I know."

They stared at each other in silence for several long, tense moments. Their breath was visible, puffing out in little clouds from their noses.

Then, Ginny's voice echoed through the frozen air. "Hermione? Ron! We're decorating the house, come on!"

Hermione blinked, breaking Ron's gaze. "Come on. Let's go."

She didn't look back, but turned away and marched straight for Ginny's silhouette in the open back door.


	9. Chapter 9

"Ginny?"

"Nnnh."

"Are you awake?"

"No. G'sleep, Ermynee."

"Can I ask you something?"

Ginny groaned and fumbled on her nightstand for her wand. She flicked it once, and the light turned on. She poked her head up and stared at Hermione through her puffy eyes, yawning hugely. "Whuh?"

Hermione was lying on her back in her camp bed, one arm folded behind her head as she stared at the ceiling. She was wearing the expression that usually meant she had been deep in thought for quite a while, and had no idea where she was, let alone what time it was; Ginny glanced at the clock: two-thirty.

"Hermione," she said, when Hermione did not speak right away. "Talk, or I'm going back to sleep."

"Do you think about Tonks a lot?"

Ginny blinked. "Er…well…I suppose. I—I miss her."

"What about Fred?"

"Hermione, you're doing that thing that I hate," she said. "Talk like a real person, please."

Hermione seemed to shake herself, and sat up on her elbow, looking at Ginny seriously. "Sorry. I was thinking of too many things."

Ginny nodded.

"I just meant…you think about Fred, don't you? And Tonks, and—and Mad-Eye, and Remus—don't you?"

"Of course," Ginny replied. "All the time."

"Well, so do I!" Hermione burst out, and Ginny frowned.

"Is this what you and Ron were arguing about after dinner?" she groaned.

"He says that—I'm not _feeling_ as much as I should. Like I'm not coping," Hermione muttered angrily, dropping onto her back again. "What does he know, though?"

Ginny yawned, seizing her pillow and starting to mash it into a more comfortable ball. She picked up her wand and turned out the lights again "Hermione, as firmly as I believe that Ron has no business telling other people how to deal with their feelings…" she paused, yawning yet again, "…especially when he has all the tact and subtlety of a Confunded graphorn, I sort of agree with him."

There was a thud; Hermione had knocked her pillow off her bed. "What?"

Ginny opened her eyes reluctantly. She could just see Hermione's outline in the darkness. "I'm just saying that sometimes, you need to remember that it's okay to be…sad. Or—miserable, or happy, or whatever the hell you're feeling. Sometimes you turn off your emotions and just do that weird thing with books."

"Studying?" Hermione asked sardonically.

"That's the one," Ginny replied. She heard an angry huff from Hermione's bed, but smiled to herself; it meant she had won the argument, for Hermione had nothing more to say.

Then, after a few minutes—

"I hope you know that was utterly useless advice," Hermione said waspishly. "And that—you still haven't told Harry about Tonks. And you need to."

"Mm-hmm," Ginny mumbled into her pillow, ignoring the sting of truth in her last statement. "I know. Go to sleep."

* * *

"Morning," said Charlie, beaming at Darya as she came limping into the kitchen, blinking in the dawn sunlight that was streaming through the window. She still leaned on her cane, but moved much more quickly than she had just yesterday. "How did you sleep?"

"Well," she said. "It's early—I didn't think anyone would be up."

"We're a few hours ahead of the rest," he told her, pulling out a chair at the table. "D'you want tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee," Darya mumbled, rubbing her face with her hands.

"How's your leg?" Charlie asked, placing a cup before her and pouring out.

"Stop asking me questions and come here for a moment," Darya laughed, holding out one hand. Charlie took it nervously, and she gave him a gentle kiss on the back of his hand. "Good morning."

Charlie's stomach squirmed. "Morning," he said weakly.

Darya chuckled. "I think I might have embarrassed your brother last night…and Harry Potter."

Charlie shrugged. "I didn't exactly warn you that he'd be here—I don't think of it anymore. But I wouldn't worry about it."

"I won't be so rude again," Darya said. "I am afraid I hurt the girl—Herm—Herm-oney's feelings."

"Hermione," he told her. "And don't worry—the three of them are—well, they've sort of all…been together for a really long time. I think they're used to it by now."

Darya nodded, looking pensive. "I don't think I really stopped to imagine what it might mean, to come home for Christmas with you."

Charlie's heart twisted painfully. "Er—well—d'you—d'you want to go back to—"

"No!" she said suddenly. "Oh! No, that—" she swore in Russian. "That is my stupid English not saying what I mean to say!" she told him. "I am sorry—I am so glad to be here, Charlie—I am. I just—didn't…know what I would see, you know?"

"Right," he said, and Darya placed a hand on his arm.

"Where do you go to get Christmas gifts?" she asked. "I want to find something for your sweet mother—and you."

"You don't have to—"

"I do," Darya said firmly. "I have met your family—I most certainly do."

* * *

George opened the living room window and took a deep breath of the morning air in the alley; it was icy cold, and the sky was cloudy—perhaps it would snow. He had fallen asleep almost immediately after locking up last night, and felt well rested and more comfortable than he had in months.

He turned and faced his messy flat, his eyes lingering on the pathetic little Christmas tree that Angelina had insisted he get. It was so small—barely a foot high—that it sat on the windowsill. Grudgingly, he filled a glass with water and carried it over to the tree, dumping it into its bowl. "That's all you're getting," he grumbled at it.

He frowned—something under the tree had caught his eye. Then his heart plummeted. He picked up the small, wrapped gift and flipped open the card he had written:

_To Angelina,_

_Love, George_

He had forgotten the earrings. He had forgotten Angelina's appointment and he had forgotten that he had bought her the earrings that she had admired for months in the shop windows of Lee's parents' jewelry store.

"Damn," he muttered.

He stared at the box in his hand, furious. He had forgotten that he'd bought the damned earrings—something stupid and pointless that had made Angelina smile—and he'd bought them for her. George stormed back across the flat, flinging the little box against the wall. Why would Angelina have left him, anyway, if he was worth the effort? Why had she given up on him?

But, said a nasty voice in the back of his mind, do you even need to ask? George glared down at the box, slightly crushed on one corner where it had hit the wall. You didn't deserve her. She deserved better than you. You _weren't _worth the effort.

"Damn," he swore again, more loudly. He paced back and forth, trying to relieve his sudden, pounding anger—and then he froze, his heart stopping. He had just caught sight of Fred, standing in their bedroom.

Without turning, George closed his eyes and counted to ten. It was not real, he told himself. It could not be real. Slowly, he opened his eyes and pivoted slowly to face the point where he had seen Fred.

It was the mirror that hung on the wall above Fred's bed. George had seen himself in it, and it was his own reflection that gazed back at him right now. He could see the mop of orange hair and the pale white face—and, most distinctly, his missing ear. It was himself, and not Fred.

_You prat, you saw me because you were acting like me._

George pushed the thought away; he was not about to go mad—not now. But there was a kernel of truth in what Fred's voice said…

If there was one thing for which George had never forgiven Fred, it was his selfishness—occasional, rare, and George had always managed to move beyond it—but he couldn't forgive it, because he had never been able to understand it. Actually, early on, in his fits of despondency, George had even blamed Fred for getting himself killed, as though he had had some say in the matter—as though he could have known that a stupid wall—a _wall_—would be the thing that got him.

_You saw me because you were acting like me._

_How_ could he have been so stupid? George pressed his hands to his forehead, rubbing his eyes furiously. How could he have let this happen? It was no wonder Angelina had lost patience with him. It was no wonder she was gone, and better off for it, because he had lost patience with himself!

_You saw me because you were acting like me._

He snatched up the box again tore the card off, glancing down at his watch. He had more than an hour until opening, so he stuffed the gift in his pocket, tied on his robe more securely, and stuffed his feet into a pair of Wellies, scrambling downstairs.

He had to get to the post office.

* * *

Arthur whistled a Christmas carol as he carried a stack of firewood in the kitchen door. He met Ginny, who was up bright and early, wrapped tightly in her cloak.

"Morning, Daddy," she said, pecking his cheek as she passed. "I'm going to check on Harry's present."

"Wear something other than your slippers!" Arthur called after her; she was already out the door, but stopped and came back inside, picking up her boots.

"Where's Mum?" she asked, tying them tightly as she sat at the breakfast table. "I haven't seen her yet."

Arthur did a double take. "You haven't?"

Ginny raised her head. "No…why?"

He swallowed hard, setting down the firewood promptly. "Nothing, dear."

She frowned at him. "Dad?"

"What, sweetheart?" he asked, busying himself with stacking the wood on the pile in the scullery. "Yes, you can have some of Errol's Owl Treats."

"No, that's not what I wanted," Ginny said quickly. "I was just wondering if….Mum is all right? She—hasn't been herself."

Arthur's heart sank, but he turned and faced Ginny, kissing her forehead quickly. "Of course she is, sweetheart. You know how tiring things get around this time of year. Don't worry about it." He looked out the window. "Looks cold, though—you should take an extra blanket out to the shed for the owl."

"Reckon it'll snow?" asked Ginny, picking up a soft, worn towel and refolding it. She seemed to be watching Arthur for signs of cracking—of giving up information. He smiled at her.

"Maybe so," he said. "Go check on the owl. Your Mum and I'll get breakfast going."

He watched as Ginny went out the back door, waiting until he could just see her go in the shed—and then he pelted towards the stairs. He did not know what made him so sure, but he knew that something was wrong…

"Molly?" He pushed the bedroom door open. "Molly, darling, are you awake?"

"Arthur?"

Squinting through the semi-darkness because he did not want to draw the blinds and disturb her, he found his way to the bedside. "Sweetheart…are you all right?"

She shook her head. Her face was white, and she looked very ill. She was curled up in a ball beneath her blankets. "I feel awful…"

Arthur placed a hand on her forehead. "You've got a bit of a fever. I'm going to Floo St. Mungo's—"

"No, no," Molly insisted, catching his wrist. "I'll be all right…I just need to rest…don't call the hospital."

"I'd feel better—"

"Arthur," she said seriously, "I know I've been wrong about…more than a few things, these last couple of days…but please, don't call them."

"Molly," he said gently, and she gazed pleadingly at him. He could see it; she could not bear going to the hospital for Christmas. He sighed heavily, unwilling to give in, though he knew that this was the more rational decision. "Let me make you a deal—if you stay in bed, and sleep—no knitting, no wrapping, no getting up at all—but you rest and relax, I'll be the only one to look after you. But tonight, if you've still got the fever, or you get worse later today, I'm taking you straight to St. Mungo's."

"It's not necessary," she protested, but Arthur squeezed her hand, trying to communicate to her all he felt in the painful lump that rose in his chest every time he thought of Molly being ill. And, by some miracle, a small piece of it seemed to reach her. She sighed and nodded. "All right. But I won't get any worse. You watch, Arthur Weasley."

Arthur chuckled and kissed her hot forehead softly. "I believe you—you don't even know how much."

Molly smiled at him. "What will you tell them?" she asked, nodding to the door.

"I'll think of something," he promised.

She bit her lip, looking thoughtful. "I—I think…you should tell them. At least Ginny—she gets so worried about us."

"Do you want me to?" Arthur asked seriously. Molly thought for another moment. Then she nodded. "All right," he said. "Go to sleep, now. I'll come back in a bit with some chicken soup."

He got up to leave, but Molly caught hold of his arm, clutching his wrist tightly. He was surprised at the strength of her grip. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said.

"Oh, Mollywobbles," he replied, and she laughed. "Of course. That's why I'm here."

"I love you, Arthur," she said, just before he closed the door.

He beamed, feeling happiness that had been painfully absent for far too long rise in his heart. "Me too, Molly."

* * *

"Dragon pox?" Ron repeated, feeling stunned. He looked at Harry over their chess game. "That's—that's a kid's disease. _That's_ what Dad said was wrong with her?"

Ginny rubbed her eyes hard. She sat on the sofa beside Hermione, who was stringing popcorn—it was some Muggle tradition that she had always practiced at home, and she was having fun turning the popcorn different colors with taps of her wand.

"But she's going to be all right?" Harry asked worriedly. Ron glanced at him again; he looked very tense. "I mean, he said that too, didn't he?"

"She says she just needs to sleep, and she'll be up to cook dinner for all of us," Ginny said, sighing heavily; she had just spent an hour upstairs, alone with Mum in her room, while Dad had run out for some food from the Leaky Cauldron. Moments ago, he had hurried upstairs without so much as a hello, bearing a steaming bowl and a soupspoon. Ginny had come down a few minutes later. "I don't know. I wish I'd known—I could've—"

"Ginny," Hermione said gently, "There was nothing you could have done." Ron tried to give Hermione a grateful smile, but she missed his gaze.

"Yeah, Gin," he said. "It's just…one of those things."

"But if I was here—I don't know, maybe I could've—taken care of things for her, so she wouldn't have gotten sick—"

"If you were here?" Hermione repeated sharply. "What does that mean?"

Ginny looked startled, and glanced at Harry. "N-nothing," she said quickly, picking up the popcorn string. "Nothing—I just meant…I wish I could've been here."

Ron stared at Hermione, who, in turn, was staring at Ginny with the most pained expression on her face. Ginny was trying hard to ignore it. Finally, it seemed that she couldn't any longer. "Harry, can I talk to you?" she burst out, standing up suddenly. "Just—in the kitchen—for a minute?"

Harry looked startled. Ron opened his mouth to say that he would prefer it if they stayed within his sight lines, but he caught sight of the filthy look Hermione threw him around Ginny's elbow, and fell immediately silent. He watched as Harry rose and followed Ginny out of the room, and then looked around confusedly at Hermione.

"What the bloody hell—?"

"Don't worry about it, Ron," said Hermione briskly.

Ron blinked. "Hermione, that's—"

"Your little sister, I know," she replied patiently, turning a piece of popcorn bright green. "But leave her be. That's private, in there."

Ron stared at her. Fragments of their argument the night before floated between them, and he felt as though he were trying to navigate a particularly unpleasant and dangerous maze of emotions. Then, Hermione surprised him.

"Are you all right?"

"What?"

"After all this with your mum," Hermione said. "Are you all right?"

"Er," said Ron, feeling caught off guard, "I—I guess. I mean, she's going to be okay."

Hermione smiled at him. "Of course she is."

Ron felt a sudden swell of courage, and steeled himself. "Hermione, I—I'm really sorry about—about last night."

She blinked. "I know you are."

"I didn't—"

"I know," she said, more insistently. "You didn't mean it." She turned back to the popcorn in her hands.

"No," Ron said. "Seriously, Hermione—can't we talk—?"

"I'd rather not," said Hermione. She was avoiding looking at him again. "Really. I don't want to talk about it."

"But—Hermione, _please_," Ron said. He glanced to the kitchen doorway. Ginny and Harry were obviously still talking, so he stole over to the rocking chair beside Hermione's spot on the sofa. "Come on. I—I didn't want to hurt you—"

"Hurt me?" Hermione repeated, and she sounded a little breathless. In fact, up close, Ron could see that her cheeks were steadily turning a brighter shade of pink. His stomach clenched—that was never a good sign. "Don't worry about that, Ron—it's nearly impossible for you to hurt me, remember?"

"What's going on out there?" Percy asked, bewildered as he came in from the kitchen, bearing many parcels and shopping bags. "Ginny looks really upset—"

"Don't worry about it, Percy, everything's fine," said Hermione, barely disguising the tremble in her voice as she leapt to her feet, thrusting the bowl of popcorn into Ron's hands and running off up the spiral stairs. Ron gaped after her, utterly shocked. Then he looked around at Percy.

"Where've you been?" he asked.

Percy held up his bags, still looking rather confused. "Shopping. Charlie and Darya are right behind me."

"Right," said Ron slowly. He looked up the staircase. Hermione could not be seen any longer.

"Everything…all right?" asked Percy.

Ron blinked, shaking his head. "I've got no idea."

"Right," said Percy. He held up his bags again. "Well—I'm off to take care of these. We can talk later."

"Sure," said Ron faintly. Percy left up the stairs, and Ron dropped his head in his hands, sighing heavily. _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_ was not going to help him out of this.

* * *

Harry leaned against the counter, looking a little sick. Ginny swallowed hard. "I know I never told you why I got so…upset about Mum, this summer. Why I wanted to stay back from school…and…it's all sort of roundabout, I know, but I can't stand the idea of you not knowing at all—"

"I didn't think there was another explanation," said Harry, his voice sounding hollow. "I figured it was your mum. That was all."

Ginny pressed her lips together for a moment. "I've had a really, really difficult time being away from her—from all of you—but from her, especially. And…I didn't want to tell you why."

"But why now?" Harry asked. He did not sound angry or even upset. He was genuinely curious. He faced her. "Why tell me now, Ginny?"

She drew a breath. "Because when I was up there with her, just now…" she closed her eyes. "Harry, she thinks the world of you. Almost like you were one of us—one of hers. But I _love_ you—in an entirely different way—and—"

Harry stepped forward and took her hands. "What?"

"I know why she was behaving so oddly—she's been trying to make Dad happy, to make him stay calm," said Ginny, feeling, to her great embarrassment, tears sting her eyes. "I couldn't keep this from you anymore. I know it hurts, because it hurts me, too—but I had to tell you the truth. If we're going to stay together, we're going to find bigger things than this to worry about—"

Harry gave her an awkward sort of smile. "The last thing Tonks would've wanted was to come between us," he said, and Ginny felt her whole body relax, releasing the tension she had pent up for so long.

"Exactly," she said, with a weak laugh. She hurried forward and embraced him. It felt so good, so freeing, to just tell him everything—she hugged him tightly, and he did the same.

"Er—everything all right, here?"

Ginny released Harry and turned around; Charlie, with Darya leaning on his arm and a handful of parcels, had just come in the kitchen door, looking very bewildered. "Fine," she said. "Absolutely fine."

He arched an eyebrow.

"I'll tell you later," she promised. "Hi, Darya."

"Hello, Ginny," she replied, with a wave. "Hello, Harry. Charlie, can I sit—?"

"Oh," he said, startled. "Right—yeah, in here—" He led her through the doorway into the sitting room, and Ginny turned once again to Harry.

He was looking at her in the oddest way.

"What?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing," he said. "Just remembering that…you're really amazing with Teddy. I—I think I appreciate that—a bit more—or something," he mumbled awkwardly.

Ginny smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

Freaking out, guys. Forgive me if I miss any major plot points...I'm writing as I go! Ahhh!

* * *

Fleur sniffed softly in her sleep and tucked herself closer to Bill, not waking up. Bill smiled, his fingers gently smoothing a strand of her silvery blonde hair. Fleur was truly interesting to watch while she slept—not that she was uninteresting when she was awake, but Bill always found himself appreciating her true beauty most when she allowed herself to relax.

She always slept very close to him—he did not know what it was, but something innately drove her to remain as close to Bill as possible when they slept. He gazed down at her, hypnotized. Why couldn't he let himself be as free to pull her more closely, to assure her that nothing was wrong—that he loved her no matter what?

She stirred again, and Bill felt a slight lump rise in his throat. It was suddenly crashing over him how rarely he had made time for Fleur in the last six months. For half of their marriage—the only half that hadn't involved open warfare, Death Eaters, or Voldemort—he had been focused on his mother, his father, his siblings, work, and everything else that came up, to Fleur's neglect. She had willingly opened their home to Harry, the most wanted man in the world, and six other escaped prisoners of the Death Eaters for more than a month even before that.

Was this the root of it all? Was Fleur afraid to speak to him because she felt that he would not have time to hear her? Or worse, that he would not care to hear her? And was he skirting around her because he was afraid that she would say exactly what he had just realized—and that she no longer wanted a part in it?

She opened her eyes. "Good morning," she murmured, kissing his arm. "Are you all right, chére? You look upset."

"No, I'm fine," he said, twisting his fingers into her hair. "I was just thinking."

Fleur frowned, pulling herself up so that she, like him, leaned against the headboard. "What ees eet, Bill?"

Was that a note of fear he heard in her voice? Bill took her hands in his, sitting up slightly. "I…I just….wanted to talk to you about something. But I…I don't want to hurt you."

Fleur's breath seemed to catch. She stared unblinkingly at him. "Go on," she whispered.

Bill chewed his lip for a moment. "I owe you an apology," he began. "I've not been fair to you—well, about a couple of things—but I've not been fair _mainly_ because you deserve a lot more than I've been giving you. And I know, it was a difficult way to spend our first year of being married—but still. You deserve better—Fleur?"

She had burst into tears, but was trying to hide it, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. She scrambled out of the bed, clutching her face. "I—I was afraid of zis!" she cried. "Bill—I don't know—what can I say to you?" She rushed suddenly towards him and seized his hand. "Bill, please—please, let me explain—"

"Fleur!" he cried, utterly shocked.

Fleur clung to him, tears sparkling in her eyes. "I am a veela—you know zis, yes? My muzzer—she could not 'ave me before eight years she was married to my fazzer—my grandmuzzer was twenty-two! We—not so long! Not so long for us, you know!"

"Fleur—pretty girl, you need to slow down—I can't understand you—is that French?"

"Bill, do not be angry wiz me," she begged. "I did not tell you—but I should 'ave, to spare you ze pain—my muzzer was right! I am so sorry—I am so sorry, Bill—"

Only because he could not make her stop talking any other way, because she was hysterical and upset, and was so very beautiful when she cried—Bill kissed her. Fleur relaxed immediately. He felt her arms go around him—

"Now," he said, pulling back after several long moments. "What is this about?"

Fleur drew a slow breath and released it. Then she looked up at him, giving a watery giggle. "Zat 'elped." Then she held up a warning finger. "Don't ever do eet again."

Bill snorted, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I won't. I promise. Now will you tell me what's going on?"

Fleur sighed. "First, you must know zat no matter what—I plan on 'aving as many babies as we can fit in our 'ome."

He laughed again. "Well, that sounds like a plan to me."

"Good," she answered. "All right—let me go back to ze beginning…"

* * *

"What'd you get Ginny for Christmas?" Ron asked.

Harry was startled out of his reverie—just in time, for the knife that he had enchanted to chop onions was coming dangerously close to his hand. He stopped it and looked around, startled. "Sorry?"

Ron looked very uncomfortable as he sliced carrots. "Just—what'd you get her?"

Harry stared at him, concerned. "What'd _you_ get Hermione?"

Ron turned bright red and turned back to the counter. "Never mind," he muttered.

"Are you and Hermione at it again?" Harry asked. "She seems upset."

"Just drop it, Harry," Ron told him, rather sharply.

Harry lifted his eyebrows; he could only see the back of Ron's neck and his ears, which were glowing scarlet. He shook his head and picked up the knife again, preparing to scoop the onions into a bowl.

Ron cut up a few more carrots, then turned to face Harry. "Where d'you reckon George is?" he asked.

Harry felt his back stiffen. "Dunno, mate."

"Hermione said he'd write," Ron mumbled, almost to himself. "Mum's probably worried about it."

"Your mum knows he'll come back," Harry said, though even he was not entirely sure of this. And, although he cared about George and his whereabouts, Harry was rather more interested in determining why Ron was behaving so oddly—and why he was fighting with Hermione, yet again. "Er—Ron, are you okay—?"

"Hello?"

Harry turned, and Ron quickly returned to his carrots. "Hi, Darya," Harry said, giving her a nod. Charlie's friend was very nice, though she seemed to be rather stunned by Harry, who, even now, found her interest surprising. He had not drawn so much attention within the Burrow for years.

"Er—hello," she said, limping into the kitchen. She looked very embarrassed, and held a wrapped gift. "I was looking for—Charlie's mother."

"She's not been down yet," Ron said harshly, without looking at her. Harry threw him a warning look, and turned to smile at Darya again.

"I think if you put it under the tree, it'd be all right," he said, nodding to the package in her hand.

"Can I help you with anything?" she asked, looking at the piles of vegetables that still needed to be chopped.

"We're fine."

"No thanks," said Harry, loudly enough that Darya couldn't hear Ron, who was plainly off in his own world. "We've got it under control."

Darya blinked. "All right," she said. "Will—will you let Charlie know I have gone for a walk?"

Harry stared at her; she still leaned on a cane, and he was not at all sure that she could walk very well. "Erm…sure…"

"Thank you," said Darya, and she left. Harry stared after her; she paused outside the garden gate, then continued on down the road in the direction of Ottery St. Catchpole.

"Harry, can you help me with something?"

Harry looked around at Ron; it was Hermione who had called out. He and Ron had a prompt but furious, and totally silent argument. Finally, he gave Ron a hard shove towards the kitchen door, shouting, "I'm chopping carrots, Hermione, but Ron's coming!"

"Er—hi," he heard Ron say, and Harry rolled his eyes.

The kitchen door swung open, admitting Ginny, whose face was pink from the cold as she pulled off her gloves. "Was that Darya I saw leaving?" she asked Harry, coming to take a bit of carrot and kiss his cheek.

Harry nodded. "She wanted to go for a morning walk, I guess."

Ginny stared at him. "How was she going to manage that?"

He shrugged, folding his arms as he gazed at her. "Where've you been?"

"The garden," she said mysteriously, scooping the carrots into the bowl of onions and covering it. Harry watched her, transfixed. What kind of boyfriend was he, to explain away everything he noticed was wrong about his girlfriend? And she had always been so emotional around Teddy—she could barely speak to Andromeda—and he had ignored it.

"What?" Ginny asked, cocking her head to one side as she hoisted herself onto the counter.

Harry approached her. "Nothing."

She narrowed her eyes shrewdly and leaned forward, gently kissing his forehead. "I love you," she said.

He smiled. "Me too."

"Have you seen my mum this morning?" she asked curiously. "Did she ask you to chop the carrots and things?"

"Er—indirectly," Harry said. "Your dad's just gone out for more soup, I guess—but he says she'll be down later. I wouldn't worry," he told her gently, when she looked anxious. "I think if anyone's got this under control, it's your parents."

Ginny smiled slightly. "I know."

"_Honestly_, Ron, I'll do it _myself!_"

Ron came pelting back into the kitchen, straight out the back door, without sparing even a glance at Harry and Ginny, who were very close together at the countertop. They looked at each other, stifling laughter, and Ginny slipped off the counter, hugging Harry close. He felt every muscle in his body relax, and hugged her back tighter.

"We'll have to do something about them," she said.

"Let's not rule out any Christmas miracles," Harry suggested.

* * *

"Has there been a letter from George?" Molly asked as she drank her soup; she was feeling tired, but much, much better. Still, Arthur had insisted that she stay in bed just long enough for some chicken soup, to be sure the fever was gone. She leaned against the headboard, her last knitting project—Hermione's first Weasley sweater—lying beside her.

Arthur was tidying the bedroom around her. "I don't think so, Molly," he said, meeting her eyes.

Molly's heart twisted. "Well, for all we know, he'll show up at three o'clock in the morning and expect dinner."

He gave her a tight smile. "Exactly," he agreed. "I'm sure he'll get here as soon as he can."

"Of course," Molly murmured. She set aside her empty bowl. "I need to do some cooking, Arthur, we've got all these people here for tomorrow night—"

"Take it easy," Arthur said, hurrying over and sitting down beside her. "I've already got Ron and Harry cutting things for you." Molly arched an eyebrow. "Well, it doesn't _sound_ as though they've wounded each other yet."

"Yet," Molly agreed, pushing the blankets back.

"Molly, please relax," he begged, producing from his pocket a potion. "Take this, let me check for your fever, and _then_ you can worry about us."

Molly took the bottle, closing her eyes and clutching it in her hand for a moment. "Arthur, darling—"

"I can't let you make yourself worse, like you were yesterday," Arthur was saying. He had gotten up and was straightening the room again. "I don't—"

"Arthur," she said, raising her voice. He stopped and faced her. "Come here." She beckoned for him to rejoin her on the bed. "I want to talk to you, please."

He sat down, and she took his hands gently in her own.

"I know that my being sick has been…stressful for you," she began. "And you're—Arthur, darling, you're so good at knowing when I need you, why I need you—everything like that. And I know that like me, you're just trying to—to keep everyone close." She swallowed, trying to break the tremble in her voice.

"Molly," Arthur said, trying to reach up a hand to her cheek, but she held him fast.

"Just—wait," she requested. "This—getting sick, I mean—it was my fault. It was all my own fault, it was my fault I ignored the warning signs, and it is _my_ fault that you're so tightly wound, we can't even have a proper conversation about it." Her chin shook, and tears blurred her vision.

"Molly," he said again, "that's not true—not at all—"

"I've been trying to make you believe that I'm just fine," she said. "I couldn't bear the way you used to look at me, when I was being so awful. I just wanted to show you that I was all right." She took a slow, deep breath, and met his eyes. "I had a lot of opportunity to think, yesterday, and…I am not all right, nor will I be, ever again. But that—doesn't mean—I can't—be happy—with you—"

She gave a sudden sob and flung her arms around him, bringing him into a tight embrace that he couldn't escape. "I'm sorry, Arthur," she cried. "I really am—I made it worse, but all I wanted was to make you feel better—"

"Oh, Molly," he murmured, behind her back. His voice sounded dry, and he sniffled, hugging her. "That's all I've ever wanted for you, too."

Molly laughed, finally pulling back from him. "You know he's laughing at us, right now," she said, wiping her tears away.

"No," Arthur said seriously, "He would've put some fake wands around the house for us—then he would've laughed."

She gave another little sob, her shoulders shaking, and brushed away her tears again. "I think I've frightened our poor daughter enough," she said. "That was her, sitting with me yesterday?"

"Of course," Arthur told her. "She insisted. But I wouldn't worry—she and Harry were just downstairs with Hermione, having a great laugh."

Molly smiled. She started getting up from bed and moved to the closet to select her robes—green and black, a set that Arthur had given her for Christmas one year. They were a bit too large, now, but she could manage.

"I love those ones on you," he said, getting up and kissing her cheek as she studied herself in the mirror. She smiled, kissing his cheek.

* * *

"Hey, Mum," Charlie said, coming into the overcrowded kitchen. She, Percy, Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and his father were all crammed around the table, talking loudly as they ate their lunch. "How are you feeling?"

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead," she said happily, holding out one arm; Charlie bent and hugged her. "I'm just fine. Have all those hours ahead finally caught up to you?"

Charlie yawned, nodding. "Has Darya been down yet?"

"Not that I've seen, dear," Mum told him, serving him a plate of soup and several rolls from the platter and cauldron on the table.

"Oh—sorry, Charlie," Harry said, looking around suddenly. "I forgot—she took a walk, about an hour ago."

Charlie stared at him. "What?"

"Er—yeah," Harry said. "She went in the direction of the village. I—I couldn't tell her not to, or anything."

The table had gone very quiet, and Charlie could feel all eyes on him. Ginny looked worried. He leapt to his feet, hurrying out of the room to check George and Fred's old bedroom—Darya's things were there, but she was gone. He ran back downstairs, his mind racing.

"She can't have gone far, darling," Mum said reasonably, touching his arm. "And it's not bad weather, at all."

"Right," Charlie muttered, hurrying out the back door. He yanked his cloak on. "I'll—I'll just be back later. Sorry, Mum—bye!"

He hurried out the door and across the garden, leaping over the wall…he did not know what it was—perhaps because she was injured, and he felt responsible for her safety—but being away from Darya was very unsettling for him. He needed to protect her! He needed to stay with her, to help her…he needed her.

He skidded to a halt in the middle of the road. Where had _that_ come from? He shook himself vigorously, raised his wand, and turned on the spot to get to Ottery St. Catchpole.

* * *

"D'you like those?" George asked the young woman who stood before the Pygmy Puffs' cage. She leaned on a cane; his first instinct was to recognize a fellow survivor of the war, but she turned in fright at the sound of his voice, and he did not recognize her from Hogwarts—at least not from before he and Fred had left.

"Oh," she said, smiling at him. "They are very nice."

George frowned; she had some kind of eastern European accent, which was very faint. He couldn't quite tell what it was, but he was now fairly certain that she had never gone to Hogwarts at all.

"I, uh—I breed them here in the shop," he said. "They make great gifts."

"You are—George Weasley?" she asked him, and he blinked.

"Er," he said, staring at her, "Yeah, I-I am. Sorry, do I know you?"

The woman shook her head, smiling. "No—I am sorry."

George frowned. "D'you know my family?"

The woman nodded slightly. "In a way," she said.

George felt very bewildered. "Sorry, what's your name?"

"Excuse me, how much for this?"

"Half a Galleon," George said to the wizard who had just thrust a bag of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder under his nose. "You can pay at the front—Hey! Wait a moment!" George called, hurrying after the woman, who had ducked into the crowd. He cornered her near the Puking Pastilles display; she looked frightened—or, more accurately, like someone who had lost their nerve. "How'd you know my name?" he asked her.

"I—I guessed," she said quickly. Then, quite suddenly, with surprising agility, she forced her way past him. "I have to go—"

"Wait a minute," George called after her. "Who are you?"

But the woman had disappeared. He scratched his head, confused, but smiled at a customer before heading back to the register. He was nearly there when Deirdre caught him.

"Mr. Weasley, there's an owl for you," she said, pointing towards the staff room.

"Thanks," he said, frowning as he changed course and went through the 'Employees Only' door. His heart stopped. It was the owl he had sent to find Angelina and deliver her Christmas gift. He hurried forward, looking for a scroll, a note—something—but then he saw that the gift was still tied to the owl's leg. It had come back to him, unopened. "What are you…?"

The owl gave a dismal hoot and extended its leg as if to say, _I tried my hardest_.

George freed the owl's burden, and the bird fluttered away. He stared at the gift in his palm. He had been so sure that if she just got the gift, and saw that he _had_, in fact, been giving her the attention she deserved, he would have been able to speak to her again, if only to apologize and say goodbye, if that was what she wanted.

But, no. Anger was filling him, boiling over inside. Angelina hadn't even bothered to open the stupid gift. She didn't care about him enough to even look.

He stuffed the box in his pocket and slammed the window shut. He then shoved past Verity, who was just coming in the staff room door, and said, "I'm going upstairs. Let me know who locks up. You can all go home after lunch."

George stormed up the back stairs to his flat, letting the door slam shut after him. He seized a mostly-empty bottle of firewhisky and dropped onto the sofa, seething. He wished his mind would just go blank—he wished that all the painful memories of Fred that kept coming up would just go away, but they were worse than ever, because he had come to realize just how selfish and horrible he had been to Angelina.

To Angelina! She had no family left in the world at all, thanks to the war. The only people she cared deeply about who had managed to survive were himself, Katie, Alicia, and Lee—and he had been almost cruel to her, because he could only selfishly think of himself and his own loss.

He drained the firewhisky, rubbing his face. It was only early afternoon…on the twenty-third of December.

Here he had been, thought George, congratulating himself on his heroic, sacrificial gesture of allowing his family to be happier without him…when really, he didn't even deserve to be with them. He was selfish, and cold, and should never be allowed near anyone who cared about him again.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, his mother would expect him to show up at the Burrow, and be ready to open gifts and be happy with all of them on Christmas morning. He wouldn't be there, especially not now that he knew the truth about himself—that he was no better than the behavior he had so resented in Fred.

And the truth was that now, George couldn't even bring himself to contemplate leaving the couch—even for Angelina. It was too hard, too painful—it was all too painful.

* * *

"Darya!" Charlie waved her down; she was just leaving the Leaky Cauldron, where he had taken her only yesterday for lunch. She turned and smiled nervously at him as he caught up to her. "Blimey, I was worried—I wondered where you went! I figured you only knew a few places here, though—"

"I am fine," Darya promised, smiling at him. "I—I only wanted to make sure that the gift for your mother was the right one."

Charlie frowned. "Well—I think the scarf is really nice—"

"It is," Darya agreed, and he stared at her.

"Are—are you all right?"

She wrapped an arm around his elbow. "I am fine."

"Well—er," Charlie said, "D'you—want to go back to the house? Or shop for a bit?"

For some reason, Darya's eyes looked rather wet. He stopped and faced her. "Darya?"

"Charlie, your family," she said, taking a breath, "is wonderful."

He smiled. "Thanks," he said. "I'm—I'm mad about them."

"Oh, I can tell," she replied. Charlie had the sudden impression that he was only just beginning to understand Darya, and this innate ability she had to read feelings and empathize with anyone. "I am sorry you have lost your brother," she said softly. "If anyone did not deserve that, it is your family." She paused and laughed at herself. "I do not think that was English."

"Close enough," Charlie said, his mouth was very dry. "Thanks, Darya."

She smiled at him, but it seemed to him that there was something wanting in that smile. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her—but if that was not it, then what would he do? Avoid her on the reserve for the rest of his life?

"I think I would like to rest my leg," she said gently, linking her arm in his.

"D'you want to come and meet my little brother?" Charlie asked. "The shop looks busy—and he'll probably be home later, but you could meet him if you want to."

"No, no," said Darya quickly, "Let him work. We can see if your parents need help at your house."

Charlie chuckled. "He won't mind us bothering him. I've been doing it for twenty years."

Darya laughed. "You leave him alone," she said, swatting his arm.

"Well, you'll meet him later," Charlie said. "Come on, let's go home."


	11. Chapter 11

Let's go go go, people! Christmas Eve and the big day! :) You're all the best. Love you!

* * *

"This is the cutest owl," Hermione said, gazing into the cage that sat on Mr. Weasley's worktable. Harry's new owl stared back at her inquisitively. "Doesn't she ever sleep? Hedwig always slept during the day—unless she was delivering something."

Ginny shrugged, shaking some Owl Pellets into the dish in the cage and refilling the water dish with her wand. "I think she doesn't like being away from other people, but I can only come out here once a day, or Harry'll notice."

"It's just one more day," Hermione cooed, and the little owl hooted, hopping close to the bars and pressing her belly against them, so Hermione would stroke her feathers. "One more day, sweetheart…then you get to meet Harry."

Ginny sat down on the bench beside Hermione, leaning her head on her shoulder. "I hope he likes her."

Hermione smiled, putting an arm around her. "I'm sure he'll love her. Especially because she's from you."

Ginny nodded. "I—I told him about Tonks."

"I thought so," said Hermione.

"He understood," Ginny said. "I don't know why I ever thought he wouldn't, but he did. And I feel better now…even in a sad sort of way."

Hermione went very still.

"I'm glad Harry knows how I feel, anyway," she said, brushing her hands on her jeans and standing up. She covered the owl's cage with a towel, and the owl hooted happily. Then she turned to Hermione. "And I'm glad all three of you are home, and not in some graveyard in the middle of nowhere."

Hermione started; it hadn't occurred to her that Harry would have told Ginny about Godric's Hollow. Then, it struck her that it was almost a year since they had gone there…since the snake had bitten Harry…and he would, of course, have told her about it all…

"You're clever, Ginny," she shouted after her.

"I know!" Ginny called back; she was already outside, crossing the yard.

Hermione sighed heavily, and a cloud of her breath billowed from her mouth. She knew she had to talk to Ron, but she really, really did not want to. Finally, after several long minutes of steeling herself, she dragged herself up and patted the cage; Harry's owl gave another hoot, and Hermione left the shed.

"Hello, Hermione, dear," said Mrs. Weasley. She and Ginny sat at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes. Mrs. Weasley looked a little pale and tired, but happier than she had been since they had returned to the Burrow.

Hermione smiled at her. "Can I help, Mrs. Weasley?"

"Oh, yes—"

"Actually, Hermione, I think Ron and Harry need some help," Ginny said loudly, over her mother, who frowned confusedly at her. "They're trying to wrap the last of the gifts."

Hermione glared at her, but Ginny beamed. Grumbling, Hermione marched across the kitchen.

"Oh—Hermione, dear, you haven't noticed any letters from George lying around, have you?" Mrs. Weasley asked, and Hermione turned at the door.

"Er—no, Mrs. Weasley, I haven't," she said.

"I'm sure we'll hear from him tonight, Mum," said Ginny, patting her mother's arm. "He's probably got tied up at the store with the early closing hours."

Mrs. Weasley frowned. "I'm sure we will," she murmured.

Hermione glanced at Ginny, who shook her head, her expression worried. Hermione bit her lip. "I'll just—go see how Harry and Ron are getting on."

"Mm," murmured Mrs. Weasley, setting aside her wand and getting up. She went to the counter to collect more potatoes, and Hermione looked to Ginny, who shook her head again. Hermione's heart sank; she had had a bad feeling that George would try to avoid coming to Christmas, and now it seemed that she was correct.

But she couldn't worry about it yet—Ginny gave her a fierce look, and Hermione continued into the sitting room, where Harry and Ron were desperately trying to figure out how to wrap Christmas presents.

"No, you can't fold it—look, it makes a lump—"

"Blimey, how do you even—?"

"Can't we just use our wands?"

"If we knew how to do it without them, sure!"

"All right, you two," said Hermione. "I'm here—let me help you."

Harry and Ron both looked up, and their faces broke into the expressions that Hermione knew best—relief and happiness that she was going to solve the problem. She smiled. "Harry, I—I think Mrs. Weasley might want your help in the kitchen."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Oh—sure, I'll just finish this—"

"I'll take care of it," she said pointedly, taking the stuffed dragon from him. "No problem."

Harry looked startled and glanced at Ron, who was giving him a look that plainly spelled, _GET OUT._ Hermione smirked as Harry hurried out of the room, and sat down on the hearth before the fire, facing Ron.

"What have you got?" she asked.

"This," Ron said helplessly, pointing at the toy dragon, and sweeping his arm over a pile of variously odd-shaped toys for Teddy, and a few other gifts that still needed wrapping.

Hermione snorted. "All right. The first things we need are boxes for these ones. Here—just put a bow on his neck." Ron smiled at her, and she smiled back. For several minutes, they worked in silence, but for the occasional _pop_ as Hermione flicked her wand to create a box from thin air, and the rustle of ribbon and wrapping.

"When are Bill and Fleur coming home?" shee asked, not looking up.

"Er…tomorrow, I think," said Ron. "They've got some huge party at the Delacours' tonight."

"That sounds fun," she chuckled. "Her parents seem like they'd enjoy giving parties."

"Yeah," he agreed fervently. "Er—did you say you got Teddy a Pygmy Puff?"

"Ginny will bring him down tomorrow morning—he's living with Arnold at the moment," Hermione replied. "Here, give me your hand."

Ron stared at her, confused. "What?"

"The ribbon looks nicer if I tie it this way, instead of using magic," she told him. He held out his hand and extended his index finger, placing it in the middle of the bow she was tying. "Hold still," she said, smiling up at him. She tied the green silk and pulled Ron's finger free. "Thanks."

He stared at her in silence for several long moments. She set aside the gift with the others, and folded her hands on her knees, preparing to speak. Ron beat her to it. "Hermione…"

"You were right," she interrupted. "I…avoid things, when I don't want to talk about them. You and I usually have some massive fight about it, and then we just…don't talk."

"I know," Ron said.

"But we can't do that anymore," she continued. "We can't just let this happen over and over again—I thought—and I'm sorry to bring it up, but I thought that last year, when you left…that was the end of it. I guess that was a little too good to be true."

Ron looked inexpressibly regretful. "Hermione, I—"

"It's my fault, this time," she said quickly. "It's completely my fault, Ron—I've been trying to—"

"Hermione, I know," he insisted. "It's all right. There's going to be time for us to talk about it, because…and I'm pretty sure you won't, either, but I won't let what we've got go, for anything." Quite suddenly, he turned bright red, and Hermione had the sensation that all of the air had been sucked out of her lungs.

"Ron," she whispered, and he turned an even deeper shade of red.

"I'm sorry I said what I did," he mumbled. "Really. I didn't mean it."

Hermione shook her head. "I know. I'm sorry I haven't been honest with you." Ron still looked terribly embarrassed; his features were the color of a boiled radish, so she put out her hands and took his. "I miss your brother," she said. "I miss Fred."

Ron looked up at her.

"And I miss Tonks…and Remus…and Mad-Eye, and Sirius, and Professor Dumbledore, and…" Hermione squeezed his fingers tighter, trying not to cry. "I'm worried about Professor Sprout—" she blinked, and the tears blurred her eyes for a moment. "But most of all, I miss my parents. I really do."

Ron held her hands just as tightly. "I know you do, Hermione. I'm here."

She laughed, feeling her tears spill over suddenly, and hugged him. "I love you, Ron." His ear heated up against her cheek, like he had just blushed furiously, but she did not release him.

"Love you too."

* * *

Fleur gently brushed her fingertip over her eyelid, smoothing the grayish shadow she had just applied, and then picked up her mascara. She touched the wand delicately to her lashes, drawing them out perfectly. Then she stood back and checked her reflection again; she had gathered her hair into a complicated twist on the back of her head, and it seemed to be holding quite well. The embroidered gray velvet gown she wore clung to her, and for a moment, she blushed—then she remembered that the last time she had gone to her family's Christmas Eve party, she had been just eighteen years old, unmarried—and, not to mention, dateless. That was the Christmas that Bill's father had been attacked, and he had had to decline her invitation at the last moment.

She lifted her chin. She was a married woman now—and a _happily_ married one.

"I wish Mother would let me do my makeup," Gabrielle said, drawing Fleur out of her reverie. She sat on the end of Fleur and Bill's bed, and had been watching Fleur put on her makeup and fix her hair for almost an hour.

"When you are fourteen, little one. That is how long they made me wait," Fleur said, smoothing Gabrielle's hair gently as she sat down beside her and put on her high-heeled shoes.

"Papa said he will make me wait until I am _fifteen!"_ she cried, feigning horror as she dropped back on the bed. Fleur laughed.

"Don't wrinkle your dress, darling," she said. "Come, stand up. Let me see this beauty. Did you pick it out?"

Gabrielle blushed pink with pleasure, giving a little twirl. Her hair spun out around her like a silvery fan, and the pale bluish, grayish green of the dress accented her eyes beautifully. "I saw it this summer in Marseilles! Mother surprised me with it today, though. It's an early Christmas present."

"It looks beautiful on you, sweet girl," Fleur promised, smoothing one of the layers of the floaty, fluttery skirt.

"Yours is beautiful, too," said Gabrielle. "May I put the comb in your hair? I want to see it before Mama and Papa make me go downstairs and say hello to everyone."

"All right," Fleur said, sitting down at the vanity again. "Right here," she said, pointing to the spot where she wanted it. She held up the small silver comb that complemented the dress perfectly, and Gabrielle hurried to place it in her hair. Fleur turned her head, examining it. "Oh, perfect, Gabrielle, thank you."

There came a gentle knock at the door, and Fleur turned and smiled at her little sister. "Go help Mama and Papa, and I'll be downstairs soon. Let Bill come in."

Gabrielle smiled and hurried to the door, slipping out into the hallway. Fleur leaned forward, adjusting her makeup one final time in the mirror; she could hear Bill praising Gabrielle's gown outside, and smiled.

"Wow. You look beautiful."

She straightened up from the vanity table, turning to face Bill. He was wearing his new dress robes, and he looked rather embarrassed.

"Oh, you look so 'andsome, chére," she said, sweeping close to him and adjusting his collar. "Zey look marvelous on you!"

"I think this is the first time I've worn dress robes since we got married," he muttered, running a hand over his ponytail. Fleur would never, ever have told him to cut it, but she had subjected him to a full regimen of hair care and a trim some two hours before; she was rather proud of herself, for she hadn't had to use magic at all to fix a mistake.

"Stop touching eet," she said, swatting his hand, but smiling.

"Took the earring out," he told her, pointing to his ear. "Just for you."

"Oh, chére," she purred, wrapping her arms around him. "Merci…"

Bill kissed her, his arms going right around her waist. Fleur hummed against his lips, returning the kiss passionately. Somehow (she was really going to have to pay more attention to this sort of thing) she ended up sitting on his lap, on the single chair before the vanity, before she pulled back.

"You are going to wrinkle my dress," she said, though she didn't get up, holding her arms around his neck.

Bill smiled at her; it was the most wonderful, wonderful thing she had ever seen. Her mother, who seemed to have figured out that Bill and Fleur had finally talked almost immediately after it happened, said it was the smile of a man on his honeymoon—Fleur knew this was not so. This moment of beauty and honesty that they now shared was beyond a honeymoon—it was the greatest happiness of their marriage.

Fleur kissed him once, and stood up, examining her reflection once again. She picked up her lipstick and retouched it.

"So," Bill said, standing up and straightening his robes. "Who's going to be here?"

"A lot of my cousins," Fleur said, shaking her head. "My fazzer's side of ze family, my parents' friends, a few neighbors—friends from Beauxbatons…" She frowned slightly, turning to the side and examining her figure. She looked down at her flat stomach, and tried to imagine what it would be like to have a belly there. She smiled. Her talk with Bill had not only renewed her happiness, but her optimism that soon, they would be parents.

Bill saw her looking and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. "I can't wait, either."

Fleur blushed and looked away. "Let's go downstairs. Most of zem are 'ere to meet you, anyway."

"What?" Bill laughed. "You didn't say that."

"Oh, I did not?" she asked, tapping her chin thoughtfully as she linked her arm in his and left their bedroom, walking to the main staircase of the house. "I am sorry, chére."

They descended the steps together, arm in arm.

"Wow," Bill murmured, and Fleur squeezed his elbow.

"Do not be frightened," she said. "Eet ees not ze Burrow—but we can 'ave a good time."

The foyer, parlor, and dining rooms were overflowing with people dressed in their finest robes, milling about and chatting. Fleur caught the eyes of several of her parents' friends, who beamed and waved at her; she smiled back—but was pleased that she did not feel her usual involuntary reaction to attention, of releasing her veela charm into the air. She glanced at Bill, who grinned back at her, looking rather sheepish.

She would never, ever be able to understand why he thought he didn't deserve her, when it was so clearly the other way around. She kissed his cheek.

Nearest the front door stood her parents and Gabrielle, who were welcoming the newest arrivals. Fleur gasped, bringing Bill along with her to weave through the crowd. "Mina," she cried, "Jacques!"

Mina beamed, kissing Fleur briefly on the cheek before embracing Bill tightly. Her husband, Jacques, a little old wizard with a tremendous beard and not much hair, turned from shaking her father's hand to smile at Fleur. "Ah, look at you!" he said happily, holding his arms out for her. She hugged him. "I was worried we would never see you again after you married an Englishman."

"Jacques," Mina reproached; she was in the midst of hugging Gabrielle. "Look—this is Fleur's husband."

Fleur turned and smiled at Bill, drawing him forward by the hand. "Jacques—this is William—Bill. My husband."

Jacques' wrinkled face broke into an even broader smile, and he shook Bill's hand, tipping Fleur a wink. "Well, he is not so bad—as the English go."

Fleur laughed. "'E thinks you are the most 'andsome man in ze world," she told Bill, who grinned. "And zat you smell nice."

"Tell him I think he looks all right, too, for a Frenchman," he said. She repeated this in French to Jacques, and he guffawed with laughter, clapping Bill on the shoulder.

"What is this that I have, Miss Gabrielle?" Mina was saying, for Gabrielle still clung to her, and seemed to have found a small, wrapped gift in Mina's pocket.

"I believe zat Gabrielle 'as found 'er first present," said Apolline, laughing.

"Oh!" Gabrielle cried, holding it up joyously. She looked between Mina and Jacques, finally just throwing her arms around them both. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Bill laughed. "I forgot how excited kids her age get about Christmas," he mumbled to Fleur, who laughed.

"Come along," she said, taking his hand and leading him into the parlor, where the enormous, glittering Christmas tree towered over the room, full of people. "I want to show you something."

She led him across the room, smiling at a few guests. "I will come right back to you," she promised a friend of her mother's who caught her arm. "'Ere, Bill."

He stared at the beautiful glass bowl that sat on the small table. It was full of Christmas punch, surrounded by glasses made of the same rainbow-speckled glass. "Er…that's really nice, Fleur."

She gave a small laugh. "Zis is a bowl zat my grandmuzzer made," she said, ladling two cups full of punch. "She was not a witch—she 'ad no wand, but she 'ad magic of 'er own, and made ze glass pieces 'ere. My muzzer 'as put punch in zis bowl for as long as I can remember—when I was sixteen, before—" she broke off, swallowing hard as she handed Bill his cup, "—before I ever came to England, or knew anytheeng about you, or your family…zat was ze first Christmas I was allowed to 'ave ze _vairy special _Christmas punch."

She raised her glass, meeting his eyes steadily. He was watching her, fascinated—but not in the way that the boys with whom she'd grown up had always been fascinated—fascinated, because he loved her, because she was talking to him…because he wanted to listen.

"Next Christmas, Bill," she said, "I do not want to drink zis. Do you understand me?"

Bill blinked. Then his face broke into a huge smile. "Perfectly, pretty girl."

They clinked their glasses together and drank; Fleur grinned as Bill slipped an arm snug about her waist.

* * *

Arthur woke up, startled out of his sleep by something—he did not yet know what. He turned over. Molly was not in bed beside him, but the bathroom door was open, and the lights were out. Her dressing gown was not on the chair at the end of the bed. Had she gone downstairs and started preparing the Christmas parcels to place on everyone's beds? No, he thought, looking at his clock, it was not even midnight.

"Molly?" he whispered. There was no answer, not that he had expected one.

Yawning widely, he got out of bed and pulled on his robe, stepping into his slippers. He went ot the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, and crept quietly downstairs; there were no lights, but the moonlight streaming through the windows hit the Christmas tree at exactly the right angle to make it glitter gray and silver.

He stopped, looking around the living room. Molly was not sleeping in her rocker, on the sofa, or anywhere else; although he could see fourteen labeled piles of presents sitting in a row all along the hearth: Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Darya, George, Ron, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Arthur, Andromeda, Teddy, and Molly. Teddy's was the largest by far—and the smallest was Molly's, which sat directly beside it.

Arthur's heart did an odd sort of flip. There were so many new pieces to their family—and none of them quite fit the one that was missing. He approached Teddy's massive pile and picked up a stuffed toy dragon that had a blue ribbon around its neck, smiling down at it. He was fairly certain it was from Charlie. It was going to be a wonderful experience, having a baby in the house again for Christmas.

Sometimes, Arthur felt he forgot how much he had always loved having babies around.

A sudden draft chilled him, and he turned to look through the doorway to the kitchen. The back door blew open in a slight breeze; Arthur hurried towards it, rushing outside. He suddenly knew exactly where Molly had gone. Outside, the moon was beginning to be obscured by thick clouds that were rolling in in huge, thick masses.

He looked through the orchard, and something pale, moving in the darkness, caught his eye—without his glasses, it was hard to see properly, but he knew who it was. He blinked, feeling a pain in his heart, and approached her.

"Molly?" he said softly.

She turned, giving a sudden sniff and hurriedly wiping her tears away. "Oh, Arthur," she said, giving him a smile. She knelt on the ground. Her hand rested on a large, white stone. "I—I felt badly." Her lip trembled. "I—haven't come out in a few days. I didn't want him to think he was—alone."

FRED WEASLEY

1 April 1978 – 2 May 1998

Son, Brother, Light of Our Lives

Arthur's throat swelled painfully, and he knelt down beside her on the freezing, hard ground. Hot tears stung his eyes. "You know he'd never think that," he said quietly, and she nodded.

Suddenly, Molly let her head drop forward, and her shoulders heaved. "Arthur, I—I don't think—Georgie's coming home," she said, barely understandable through her tears.

Arthur felt a small sob escape him, and he put his arms around her, pulling her tightly against his body. She was ice-cold, but seemed not to have noticed, and his heart broke again. "He will, Molly…in his own time…he will."

He held her like that for a very long time, and they cried together as they had not done in many months. The chill wind whipped around them, but neither Arthur nor Molly noticed—there must have been something in the trees around Fred's grave that kept them warm and safe from the biting cold.

Finally, Arthur sniffed, feeling as though they had both calmed down enough to speak again. He wiped his tears away and looked down at Molly. "Sweetheart, if you—if you want to be in any kind of fit state tomorrow…"

"I know," she whispered, nodding. "It's not good for me."

"Let's get you warm," Arthur told her, and she nodded again. She reached out one hand and gently brushed her finger against the F of Fred's name.

"I love you, sweetheart," she said. "Happy Christmas."

Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Happy Christmas, son."

He stood, dusting off his robe, and held out a hand for Molly, who had gotten on her knees, but now leaned toward the stone, as though she were sharing a secret with it. Arthur couldn't quite hear over the wind that was bringing the thick, dark clouds closer and closer to the Burrow, but it sounded as though she said, _"See what you can do_."

At last, Molly stood, taking Arthur's arm, and they walked together to the house. He held her closely all the way, and without even meaning to, they both stopped to gaze out the back door through the orchard one last time. The last beams of moonlight unobscured by clouds shone on Fred's grave, making it glow opalescent white in the darkness. Arthur looked down at Molly.

She wiped a tear away, drew a shaky breath, and smiled out at the stone. "He's all right," she said. "I know he is."


	12. Chapter 12

Well, I'm about thirteen hours late, but try not to stone me. Yes, the word count on this chapter is correct.

I hope that even if you're not a Christmas celebrator, you're coming to read this story from a place of warmth and happiness, whether it's with your family, your friends, or the lunatics you know as your blood relatives, like me.

Merry Christmas.

Oh, by the way - I'm moving to England for six months, starting on New Year's Eve.

...AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

* * *

Ginny flung open the door and ran out to meet Bill and Fleur as they came up the snow-dusted path to the kitchen door. "Bill!" she cried. "Fleur!" She leapt into Bill's arms, and he caught her perfectly, spinning her around.

"Happy Christmas, Gin!" he roared, swinging her back down to the ground. "Where is everybody?"

"Opening presents," she said, hugging Fleur. "How was France?"

"Eet was wonderful," said Fleur, sharing a secret sort of smile with Bill. Ginny resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and instead smirked at Fleur.

"Come on, we're all waiting for you—"

"We the last ones here?" Bill asked, shedding his cloak as they entered the kitchen.

Ginny paused in the act of picking up a tray of doughnuts, meeting his eyes. "No." Bill seemed to know instantly who was missing, and looked at Fleur nervously. "But…he'll be along," Ginny added.

"Well, what 'ave we missed?" Fleur asked, coming to help Ginny by preparing a pot of coffee.

Ginny snorted. "Well, Mum's had dragon pox—"

"_What?"_

"_Pardon?"_

"It wasn't bad," Ginny interrupted. "She's fine. She just had a bit of a cold, the other day."

"Why didn't anyone write us?" Bill demanded.

"Because you were having a lovely Christmas Eve with Fleur's lovely family."

Ginny smiled at Mum, who had just come into the kitchen. She beamed and kissed Bill, then Fleur. "Oh, I'm so glad you're back! Was it a wonderful party?"

"Molly, you are all right?" Fleur asked, and Mum laughed, kissing her cheek again.

"Of course, dear! I'm just fine—come in, come in—it finally snowed last night," she said. "It's absolutely frozen out! Come in where it's warm and open your presents—Ginny, bring the coffee and doughnuts?" She led Fleur by the elbow into the sitting room.

"Mum," Bill said slowly. "Wait a moment—"

"Bill," said Ginny sharply. He looked around at her, startled. "Don't," she told him warningly. "She's better. That's it. Understand?"

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded and came over to help her carry the tray of coffee cups and doughnuts. Ginny led the way into the sitting room, which was overflowing with chatter. Mum sat in her rocker, laughing with Fleur and Andromeda, who was wearing her newly unwrapped scarf. Dad, Charlie, and Darya were all admiring their gifts; Darya looked overwhelmed with happiness, and could not stop thanking Ginny's parents.

Percy and Ron were comparing their Christmas sweaters to Hermione's—which had, once again, proved Ginny's longstanding theory (supported by Fred, George, _and_ Ron) that Mum always made the best ones for the people who weren't related. Hermione was beaming, and Ginny caught her eye; she had always wanted a Weasley sweater, and the powdery blue one that Mum had made for her, decorated with white and silver stars, was particularly beautiful.

Ginny set down the tray and Bill wandered over to Charlie and Dad, but she went straight to Harry, who was sitting on the floor with Teddy. The baby had bright green hair today (one of his favorite shades), and wore a set of equally green corduroy overalls, under which was a striped red and white shirt and a pair of bright red socks.

"He looks like an elf," Ginny snorted, as she sat down beside them.

"Yeah, but he's a cute elf," Harry said, holding Teddy up and waving one fat fist at Ginny. "Besides, if he's anything like either of his parents, I don't think he'll let us get away with dressing him like this for long. Better enjoy it while we can, and hang onto the photos for blackmail."

Ginny laughed and took Teddy, holding him up over her head. "Your Uncle Harry would never embarrass you," she cooed, and Teddy giggled, wriggling his arms and legs wildly. "No, he wouldn't…" She brought him down and held him in her lap.

"Are we ready for Teddy's gift?" Mum called, and Ginny nodded, reaching for the little basket she had brought downstairs.

"You don't need to take care of it, Andromeda," Harry said quickly, and she laughed. Teddy reached out a fat hand and touched the basket Harry held out to him.

"What is it, Teddy?" Ginny asked. "What is it?" She reached out and flicked open the basket's latch. The little blue Pygmy Puff inside poked his head up suddenly and peered at Teddy, squeaking shrilly.

Teddy gave a shriek of fright and grabbed onto Ginny's neck, trying to scramble away, and everyone in the room laughed.

"Oh, poor thing!" Molly cried.

"You're right, Harry, you can take care of it!" Andromeda told him over the laughter and cries of sympathy.

"No, look, Ted," Harry said quickly, picking up the Pygmy Puff. He held it against his cheek, smiling idiotically as Ginny disentangled herself from Teddy's grasp. "Ted, look—nice Puff…what a nice Puff…"

"Uh?" Teddy asked, looking up at Ginny with tear-filled eyes.

She smiled at him and took the Pygmy Puff from Harry. Teddy gave a grunt of fright, but gazed at the little blue cloud of fur that Ginny held in her palm.

"It's a nice Puff, Teddy, see?" she said. She took Teddy's hand and brought it to gently pat the Pygmy Puff. "So nice," she said.

"Oh, how cute," Hermione squealed, as Teddy's hair turned the same bright blue as the Pygmy Puff, and he shrieked with laughter. Then she caught Ginny's eye. "Why don't you let me take him? You can give Harry your gift, Ginny," she said.

"Ooh, a gift," teased Charlie; he sat with his arm around Darya, who elbowed him.

Ginny turned scarlet. "We'll be right back," she said, passing Teddy and the Pygmy Puff to Hermione and Ron. Bill wolf-whistled, and Ron looked very surprised and disgruntled. Ginny knocked her knee into his shoulder as she passed.

"Not too long, you two!" Mum called, and there was another round of laughter from Bill and Charlie.

Ginny rolled her eyes, still holding Harry's hand as he pushed open the back door.

"My present is in the garden?" Harry asked her, shivering.

"No," she said. "Be patient for a minute." Harry laughed.

Ginny pushed open the door of the shed. They entered, but then she stopped and faced him seriously. "I wanted to…give this to you away from everybody else, just in case….you didn't like it," she told him. "And it's completely fine if you don't—all right? Just say so. I won't be angry or anything—but I want you to be happy with it—that's the most important thing, all right?" Her voice was getting high-pitched and nervous, so she stopped talking and stepped aside.

"You can call her anything you want—she's brand new."

Harry stared in shock at the silver cage, which Ginny had topped with a bright red bow. The little owl inside was wide-awake and hopping on the spot, hooting ecstatically.

"If you don't like her—I can take her back, or get you something different," Ginny blurted out, when he was silent for nearly a full minute. "I bought you a scarf in Hogsmeade, it's really nice! Really nice, I got it at Gladrags—mmf—Hrry—Hrry—mm…"

Finally, Harry released her from the kiss he had just seized her in, and she stepped back. "So that's what that feels like," she said breathlessly. Harry beamed at her, and she gave a breathless sort of laugh. "I wouldn't do it again if I were you."

"She's beautiful, Ginny," he said, and his voice sounded a little tightly constricted. Ginny smiled. "I love her."

"Well, good, because she's your new girlfriend," she quipped, hugging him. "I'm so glad you like her."

"Have you named her yet?" Harry asked.

"No," Ginny replied, and he frowned. "Well—I was thinking…maybe Stella?"

Harry smiled. "All right," he agreed. "Stella."

She beamed. "Let's take her inside—my brothers won't leave me alone if we aren't' back soon."

"Wait—just one second," Harry told her. He reached into his pocket and produced a small box. "Happy Christmas, Ginny."

Ginny gazed down at the box; it had come from a store in Diagon Alley that she knew only by its display windows. "Harry," she murmured.

"Open it first, and decide if you like it," he laughed.

She lifted the lid. Inside, on a small square of velvet, was a tiny silver pendant in the shape of a phoenix. A small ruby was embedded in its tail. _"Harry_," she said again, her hands shaking suddenly, so that she almost dropped the box. She placed it on the worktable, holding her hands over her mouth.

"Do you like it?" he asked quietly.

She looked at him, tears filling her eyes, and nodded. "It's amazing. Thank you—thank you so much!" She threw her arms around Harry, hugging him tightly, and he laughed.

"Here," he said, drawing the pendant out by its chain. "Let's see it."

Ginny pulled her ahir aside, shivering as Harry fastened the clasp behind her neck. She touched the phoenix. "This is beautiful, Harry. Thank you."

"You deserve it," Harry replied, blushing a little. "I saw it and thought of you."

Ginny rubbed her eyes quickly. "Now we really need to go back in," she said, laughing. "Come on—we'll never hear the end of it."

"Come on, Stella," Harry said, picking up the cage, and the owl fluttered around excitedly, hooting.

Ginny smiled and wrapped an arm around Harry's waist, and they walked together back to the house.

* * *

"Hermione, I—I know that now might not be the best time for this…but…" Ron took a steadying breath. They stood in the scullery, the door to the kitchen half-closed behind them. "I need you to know that I—I have a plan."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "A plan?"

"Right," he said. "I—I'll take care of this, somehow—"

"Ron…"

He closed his eyes. "I failed my qualifying exams." Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth. "I can't continue into the second term. Harry's results are under review, too—it—it doesn't look good…"

"Ron! What do—you can't be serious!"

"George said he'll let me keep my job as long as I need it, and he's going to offer one to Harry—and maybe—"

Hermione was shaking her head as she clutched her face. "I can't believe this is happening—what about Kingsley? Or Hestia?"

Ron shook his head sadly. "I don't think they're going to be able to help."

"Oh, Ron," she said. "I'm so sorry—I know you wanted this so badly—why didn't you or Harry say something before? You've been letting me and Ginny believe you were doing so well!"

"Er," he stammered, "Well, we—"

The scullery door banged open and Ginny stuck her head in. She looked torn between fury and laughter, and snapped at Hermione, "If Ron's telling you he failed his exams, don't believe him! He and Harry both got perfect scores on dueling." Then she slammed the door shut again.

Hermione looked confusedly at Ron. "Wait, what?"

"Bloody hell," he groaned. "I _told _him not to try and trick Ginny!"

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione screeched, hitting his shoulder. "You didn't fail at all! You were lying!"

Ron chuckled, putting his hands on her elbows. "I'm sorry—we wanted to have a little fun."

"I'm going to kill you!" she said, giving him a shove.

"Oi!" he cried. "Did you hear the part where I _actually_ got a perfect score on something?" Hermione blinked, looking momentarily stunned. Ron laughed. "I'm not tricking you this time, I promise." He reached into his pocket and produced his scores, along with Hestia's note.

Hermione took the parchment. "Ron," she gasped. "This is amazing." Then she looked up at him, beaming. "I'm so proud of you!"

Ron laughed as she threw her arms around his neck. "Always the tone of surprise."

"Shut up," she retorted, kissing him soundly.

The scullery door opened again. "All right! Everybody out!" Hermione pulled back, blushing bright red, and Ron felt his ears go scarlet. They squeezed past Mum, who was shaking her head impatiently. "Honestly, the pair of you…"

Ron cut through the kitchen, where Fleur was helping Dad prepare mince pies. He and Hermione passed the kitchen table. Ginny and Harry sat with Charlie and Darya, building a house of Exploding Snap cards. Ginny smirked at Ron, and he made a face back at her.

"Come with me," Hermione said, tugging his hand. "I have your present…"

She led him into the sitting room. Bill and Andromeda were playing with Teddy by the window, but Hermione went to the hearth and sat down. "I've wanted you to have these," she said, "For a while."

Ron stared at her. Her hands were trembling slightly as she picked up a box and held it on her lap. Then she looked up and smiled at him. "Those robes…I can't believe you remembered…"

"You like them?" he asked. "They fit?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed shrewdly, but she smiled at him. "They're perfect, Ron." He beamed. She returned her attention to the box in her lap. "So," she said. "These—well, they're yours. I didn't want you to have to look at them in front of Harry."

Ron held his breath, and she placed the package on his lap. He lifted the lid. Inside was a tied parcel of twenty or so envelopes. The top one bore his name.

"You don't need to read them now," Hermione said softly. "But there's one…one for every day…you were gone."

Ron picked up the envelopes, running his thumb along the stack. "Hermione…"

"It's everything I should have said to you," Hermione said seriously. He looked up and met her eyes. "What happened was—it was my fault, too, _and_ Harry's, and—well, now it's over, and—"

"Thank you," Ron said. "Blimey—Hermione, thank you!" He hugged her tightly, and she laughed.

She pulled away, and Ron distinctly saw a few tears in her bright brown eyes. "But here's the catch, Ron," she said raising one finger warningly. "I'll do this once—and only once—as long as you promise the exact same thing."

Ron felt a lump rise in his throat, and blinked quickly. "All right," he said. "I promise."

Hermione smiled and kissed his cheek. "I love you," she murmured in his ear.

"Buh, buh, buh. Buh!"

Ron looked down at Hermione's knee—Teddy had come crawling over, babbling animatedly, and held up one hand for Hermione. She bent down and scooped him onto her lap. He giggled, cramming his fingers in his mouth. One of his socks had gone missing, and Ron looked around worriedly; Harry had mentioned Teddy's new favorite thing to eat was his footwear.

"Look at this," Hermione said to Ron, squeezing the baby in a warm hug. She kissed his now-brown hair softly.

"He loves you," said Andromeda; she came over carrying Teddy's sock, and held it out to Hermione. "Could you keep an eye on him for a moment? Bill said he would show me the garden."

"Of course," Hermione cooed, rocking Teddy on her lap. Andromeda walked away, and Teddy gave a little shriek of laughter, grinning widely so that his two bottom teeth were visible. He snatched at Hermione's sweater. She laughed hugged him tightly again, then looked up at Ron. "What is it?" she asked.

He had been staring blankly at Hermione holding the baby for several minutes. At last, he blinked. "Nothing," he said, taking the little red sock from Hermione and tugging it on Teddy's foot. "You just—you look really…nice…like that."

Hermione looked startled. "Well…thank you." Ron shook himself, feeling his neck grow very hot. He averted his gaze quickly.

"Bah!" Teddy shrieked.

* * *

Bill looked at his mother, who seemed pale and tired, wiping her forehead with her arm as she directed Fleur in preparing the ham. "How bad was she?"

"Not very," Charlie told him honestly. "I've seen worse. She was in bed for a day, but she's feeling a lot better."

"Really?" he asked. "You're telling me the truth?"

"Relapses are normal," Charlie said with a shrug. "I'm surprised it took her this long to have one, actually, considering we've all had it."

Bill released a slow breath; he always felt more assured when he could talk about these things with Charlie. "All right," he muttered. "If you're sure."

"She's fine," said Charlie. "And she'll feel a lot better once Christmas is over." He drained the last of his mug of tea as Bill looked over to the kitchen.

"D'you reckon there's something we can do about George?" he asked, turning slightly so that he shielded their conversation from his parents, Andromeda, Darya, and Fleur, who were all at work.

Charlie shook his head, staring down into his mug. "I don't have any idea."

"Is he at the shop?"

"I'd guess so. Unless he's taken off somewhere," Charlie said.

"You're not talking about George, are you?"

Bill looked up; Percy stood beside the table, looking anxious. "Yeah mate, we are. Sit down."

"I was thinking," Percy said, seating himself beside Charlie, "Maybe we can…get down to London. Try to talk to him."

"I don't know about that," Bill said, but Charlie was staring at Percy as though he had never seen him properly before.

"Perce," he said, "That—that might actually work. I mean—we're the oldest, and if he's doing what he did all summer, we could try to talk him out of it."

"I don't know about that."

"Oh, bloody hell," Bill groaned.

"What?" Ron demanded, sitting down next to Percy. "I want to help."

"So do I," said Harry, joining him. "George should be here."

Bill looked over at the kitchen; Fleur caught his eye, frowning curiously. "All right—look," he said, turning to face Harry and his brothers again. "We'll go down to London—but let's leave one by one. We'll meet in front of the Leaky Cauldron in fifteen minutes. Understand?"

"Fine," Ron said, "But you should know about—"

"Right," said Charlie. "Percy—you first."

"Bill—Angelina and George—"

Percy looked around, clearing his throat and standing up. Then he darted out of the kitchen, to the living room. Bill shook his head. "He was always bad at things like that. All right. I'm going to tip Fleur off, so someone here knows what's going on…but no one tells anybody else, understand? I don't want to get Mum and Dad excited for no reason if we can't get him to come back. Charlie, you go next—Harry and Ron, wait until I leave."

"Bill!"

Bill didn't stop to answer Ron, but wandered over to Fleur as Charlie got up and left the kitchen.

"Ees everything all right?" she murmured, without turning from the countertop, where she was supervising a pile of potatoes that were peeling themselves.

Bill smiled, wrapping his arms around her waist, and kissed her neck. "We're going down to London for a bit," he whispered in her ear. "We want to talk to George."

Fleur looked at him, startled. "Ees zat a good idea?"

"It's what we have to do," Bill replied. Fleur smiled sadly and nodded. "Can you keep my parents distracted? We'll try not to be very long."

"Of course," she promised.

"Thanks," he said, kissing her gently.

"Not near the food, Bill!"

He turned around, laughing. Ginny and Hermione had appeared in the kitchen doorway; Ginny held Teddy on her hip as she smirked at Bill. "Don't be a brat," he told her genially, pinching her cheek as he passed. He caught Harry's eye as he left the room; Harry nodded once.

* * *

George jerked awake, and the butter beer bottle he had been holding slipped out of his hand, onto the floor. He looked around, confused and bleary; he had been so exhausted last night (he vaguely recalled getting in bed at around four o'clock in the morning, after spending hours upon hours in the lab) that he seemed to have fallen asleep in his own bed, rather than the couch.

He looked over to Fred's bed. It was unmade and empty as ever before.

"Bloody…ouch," he muttered, rubbing his face hard. He looked around. It had to be the middle of the afternoon. What had woken him?

"_GEORGE!"_

"_GEORGE!"_

"_GEORGE! GEORGE!"_

_Thud._

_Bang._

George groaned and hoped very sincerely that he was imagining the sounds of his brothers' screaming down in Diagon Alley. He pulled his pillow over his face and tried to sleep again.

Then the singing started.

"_GOD REST YOU, MERRY HIPPOGRIFFS, LET NOTHING MAKE YOU SAD!"_

George stumbled out of bed to the living room and flung open the window overlooking Diagon Alley.

"_REMEMBER HAGRID LO-OVES YOU, AND MALFOY IS A PRAT!"_

Down in the cobbled street below, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron, and Harry were gathered. Harry and Ron were shouting Sirius's version of the Christmas carol at the top of their voices.

"_OH, SAVE US FROM UMBRIDGE BECAUSE SHE IS A MAD OLD BAT!"_

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" George shouted. "People live around here?"

"What the hell do you think _you're_ doing?" Bill shouted back.

"_O-O, TI-DINGS OF CO-OMFORT AND JOY, COMFORT AND JOY!"_

"Yeah, you don't get rid of us that easily!" Charlie yelled at him. He was tossing a stone menacingly up and down in his hand. George had the sneaking suspicion that the thuds he had heard earlier were those projectiles Charlie had thrown at the building.

"_O-O, TI-I-DINGS OF CO-OMFORT AND JOY!"_

"SHUT UP!" George roared. "I'm coming down!"

"Finally!" Charlie shouted. "Quit singing, or I'm Silencing you both! You're terrible!"

Fuming, George slammed the window shut, yanked on his robe, and stormed downstairs. He flung open the front door and saw all five of them gathered around, looking expectant. "Well, are you coming in or aren't you?" he demanded, sweeping his arm inside.

Bill grinned and strode in the shop, followed by Ron, Harry, Charlie, and Percy—who didn't meet George's gaze. George felt a twinge of unhappiness, but shut the door behind them. They were gathered around the register.

"So what d'you want?" he muttered, crossing his arms. "Something, I expect."

Charlie lifted his eyebrows. "Well, my goodness me, George, I'm just not sure…well, I guess we'd like it if—I don't know—maybe you came to Christmas."

George glanced at the others, who were staring at him—all except for Percy, who was examining a shelf full of Decoy Detonators. "Can't make it, sorry."

"Shop doing a roaring trade?" Charlie asked, gesturing around. "Must have lots of people in on Christmas Day."

"I'm working on a project," George lied easily. "And I've got bills."

"You paid those the other night," Ron interjected, and George threw him a filthy look.

"I'm not coming," he said simply. "Mum and Dad don't need me around this year, and neither do the rest of you. Obviously things are pretty chummy if the four of you—" he gestured at Ron, Bill, Charlie, and Percy, "—can team up like this. Doubt you're all pining for me. And Harry, what the hell are you even doing here?"

"Consider me Ginny's representation," he said fiercely, glaring back at George.

George paused. "What's Ginny need representation for?"

"Well, _she_ doesn't—but she's decided that she should stay at home with Mum," Charlie explained. "_Our_ mum."

"You don't say?" George asked sarcastically, but Charlie took a threatening step forward.

"She's had dragon pox. Did you even open my letter, or did you just drop it in the fireplace?"

George frowned. He had, in fact, cast aside more than one letter from his family—two from Ginny and one from Charlie—in the last few days. "I—what?"

"Bloody hell, George," Charlie muttered, walking away. "Somebody else talk."

"She'll be all right," Bill explained. "But she's not feeling well right now. And she's at the Burrow, getting Christmas dinner ready for us anyway. For _all_ of us."

"Sure about that, are you?" George asked, flaring up. "_All_ of us?"

"George," Percy said loudly, and everyone looked around. "Knock it off."

George's anger was bubbling out of control. "You're a fine one to tell me that," he spat, but Percy did not falter. George shook his head in disgust. "All right. You've made your point; you can go. I'll talk to Mum later—"

"Do you honestly think you're the only one who misses him?" Percy demanded. He pointed between himself, Bill, and Charlie. "That we somehow don't know _exactly_ what—"

"No, you _don't_ know exactly what I'm 'going through,'" George shouted. "You don't, Percy, and you can't! And I don't even expect _you_ to, it's not like you were around long enough to even talk to him again—"

"George," Bill interrupted warningly. "That's not fair."

But George was staring at Percy. He knew clearly that this was misdirected anger, that he meant almost nothing of what he was saying—but Percy had been the first to shout at him, so he would shout back. "It's about as fair as Fred dying when he stayed loyal, and Percy just ditched us!"

Percy turned positively white, and his eyes seemed to go blank. "I—I'm going—outside. I'll—" he broke off, looking confused, and hurried out the door.

George closed his eyes, dropping his head. "Damn it," he muttered through his clenched teeth.

"That," Ron said, "was not on, George."

"Shut up," George retorted. He opened his eyes and glared at Bill. "I don't know what you expected from coming here, but I'm not coming back with you. You can all have your nice Christmas without me, and I'll see you after the New Year."

"George," Harry said—he seemed to have decided that it was his turn to take a shot. "We're all sitting around the Burrow, wondering where you are. Your parents—"

"Don't need to be worried," George snapped. His anger had chosen a new target. "Seriously, what the hell are you doing here?"

Harry didn't even blink. "Your family's taken me in for years—for everything, not just Christmas. You and Fred, too."

George felt a stab of guilt and turned away from Harry.

"Look," said Ron, "You don't need to do it for us—you can be angry at us, actually—but Mum spent an entire day in bed—when has she ever done that?" he demanded. "You owe her—she's been putting herself through hell trying to get this Christmas together—"

"I'm done talking about this," George interrupted loudly. He looked between his three brothers and Harry. "Blimey, you all look like I just said I'm never going to see you again. That was Percy, remember?" he snapped, and he regretted saying it immediately. "Tell Mum I'll see her some time next week."

Bill stepped forward. "George—"

"Get out," George snapped. He stepped aside and held the front door open.

Harry, Ron, and Charlie looked at Bill, who nodded once. They filed silently out of the shop.

Bill stopped at the door, fixing George with a firm, but kind stare. "This isn't over, George."

"Bye, Bill," he muttered.

He marched away from the door, shaking his head angrily. He walked all the way to the back staircase and was halfway up before he remembered that he hadn't locked the door. He hurried down, raising his wand.

"Happy Christmas."

George slipped down the last few steps in shock.

Angelina's arm was still in a sling. She wore her blue cloak over her pajamas and bathrobe, and she looked absolutely, beautifully furious with him.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

She arched an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

George rolled his eyes. "Did my family put you up to this?"

"No one puts me up to anything, George," she retorted. "I was at Alicia's, being miserable, and your sister sent me a really interesting note—"

"Bloody—"

"—talking all about how you abandoned them for Christmas, and _lied_ to your _mother_ about it, too," Angelina continued over him. She put her free hand on her hip. "What the hell are you thinking? You know Fred would've punched you by now, don't you?"

George glowered at her. "Bye, Angelina." He turned to go upstairs. "You can let yourself out."

"Don't shut me out, George Weasley!" she shouted at him.

He whirled around. "Don't shut _you_ out? _You?_ Oh, you're kidding me!" He hurried down the steps again. "How about that stupid fight—you called me selfish, you acted like I didn't care about you at all!"

"Don't put all of that on me, George," she said in her most dangerous voice. "I was angry, and so were you—I said some things I didn't mean, but I most certainly meant that you were being selfish. You were." Her eyes narrowed. "And you know it, don't you?"

"Doesn't matter!" George said. "We—we said we'd help each other—"

Angelina blinked slowly. "We _can_ help each other. And we will. Starting right now—I'm making sure you get back to the Burrow—"

"What about my gift?" George shouted at her. She stepped back, frowning.

"Your gift?"

"I sent you a gift—you didn't even open it, you just sent the bloody owl back, no note—no anything!" he yelled.

Angelina blinked. "Wait," she said. "You sent me a package? Yesterday?"

"Yes," George said furiously.

She looked a bit confused for a moment; then she bit her lip, stifling laughter. "Oh," she giggled. Her smile was quickly replaced by something that was only slightly more sympathetic, as she kept giggling. "Oh, George—dear, _no_—you have to know, no one in their right minds opens unmarked packages nowadays."

He stared at her. Angelina laughed harder.

"I—I'm sorry," she gasped. "It didn't even say my name! How was I supposed to—oh, my—you _can't_ be serious!"

"Will you quit laughing?" George demanded, and Angelina made a valiant effort to stop doubling over with laughter—she failed. George felt a small twitch at the corners of his mouth.

"George," she panted, "I'm sorry—how was I—how was I supposed to know? I had no idea who it was from! I mean, honestly—best-case scenario, it was some stranger mailing me—bubotuber pus, or something. Worst-case scenario, a Death Eater gift-wrapped a curse for me! How was I supposed to know it was from you, anyway? Why wouldn't you put a card on it?"

George felt himself turn red, and his smile widened. "You—you didn't reject it?"

Angelina came closer. "Only because you're a _terrible_ secret admirer, and _I_ seem to be the only one who learned from Katie's mishap with that bloody necklace."

George gazed at her. "Er…d'you…d'you want…your present?"

Angelina shrugged. "That depends. Can we talk?"

George swallowed. He was feeling very overwhelmed by emotion at the moment. "Did you say you were being miserable…over at Alicia's?"

"The worst houseguest you've ever seen," she told him.

He laughed weakly and nodded. "Yeah—yeah, we can—we can talk."

She smiled, taking his hand in hers. "All right, then."

* * *

_moments earlier_

* * *

"Now what?" Charlie grumbled. "Now I know he's just sitting there, I'm angry."

Bill nodded and put a hand on Percy's shoulder. "You all right, mate?"

Percy gave a tight grin. "I sort of…expected that." It was not a lie. Percy had anticipated an outburst not unlike the one he had just experienced for quite some time. Nonetheless, he felt heartsick and ill, hearing George's words echo in his head.

"You're here now, that's what matters," Bill said firmly, and Percy nodded shortly. Then Bill sighed. "I think—and I don't want to say it—but we may need to just go back home."

"I wouldn't count on that," Ron said. "I—er—I told Hermione and Ginny where we went."

"What?"

"Why?"

"Oh, thank Merlin."

"Because," Ron said loudly, "If they did what I asked—" He looked up from his watch. "There she is. Hi, Angelina!"

Percy turned to see Angelina Johnson, obviously wearing a cloak over her pajamas and bathrobe, her arm bound up in a sling, looking positively furious as she came storming down the cobbled street. "Where is he?" she demanded of Ron.

"In there," he told her. "Reckons we aren't waiting for him to come home. Thanks for coming!" he called; she was already shoving open the shop door.

Percy looked at Ron confusedly. His expression was mirrored on everyone's face except Harry's. "What's going on, Ron?" he asked.

Ron shook his head. "Long story."

* * *

"I wonder where the boys have gotten to," Arthur said, looking around; the house had quite suddenly gotten very empty. He looked around; Andromeda and Fleur were helping Molly prepare the crust for a pie, and Ginny sat between Hermione and Darya at the kitchen table, with Teddy on her lap.

"I think they said they wanted to play Quidditch, Dad," Ginny called.

He frowned, nodding.

"Arthur?" He turned. Fleur was looking nervously up at him, chewing her lip. "I don't mean to—eh—put my nose wair eet does not belong, but—Molly seems to be rather tired." She pointed over her shoulder.

Molly was leaning against the counter, laughing with Andromeda, who was putting the pie in the oven. Despite her smile, she looked very ill. He put a hand on her arm. "Molly?" he asked. "Can I talk to you in the living room?" he asked.

She looked at him, smiling, and glanced at Andromeda. "One moment, dear—I'll come back."

"Of course," Andromeda said, who was washing her hands free of flour and dough.

Arthur led Molly by the elbow out of the kitchen and faced her. "I don't want you to get upset," he said, "but—"

"I don't feel well," Molly said immediately. "Believe me, I know." His jaw dropped, and she gave him a faint smile. "Try not to look too shocked when I tell you you're right, dear, it makes me feel guilty." She sat down on the sofa, putting her feet up. "I need to rest for a few minutes, at least."

"Let me handle the cooking, Mollywobbles," he said, kissing her cheek. "I'll call you if trouble comes up."

Molly tipped her head back, sighing. "I can help if you need me," she said. "Just…let me have a few moments…"

"All the time you want, sweetheart," he said, kissing her again. He picked up a blanket on the back of the couch and covered her.

"Mum all right?" Ginny whispered as she squeezed past him in the doorway. She still held Teddy. Arthur nodded, smiling.

"Why don't you go and sit with her?" Arthur suggested. He took Teddy up in his arms, bouncing him. The baby giggled, waving his arms ecstatically. "She'll like that."

"Okay," she replied. She glanced at Molly, who was already dozing off, and Arthur kissed her cheek.

"She's just resting," he promised.

Ginny nodded once, blinking, and looked at him. "For when George gets home."

Arthur's heart constricted. "Exactly."

* * *

Harry looked down at his watch; it was getting late, and they would be expected back at the Burrow for dinner soon. "Are we sure this'll work?" he asked Ron.

Ron shrugged. "If Angelina can't make him see reason…well, we can always try and get him home next year."

Harry's heart ached. He did not like that at all. George had hurt his feelings when he had demanded to know why Harry even cared that he was absent. He had had to remind himself that George was angry, and would say terrible things to anyone, _including_ his own real brother. Harry glanced at Bill and Charlie, who were pacing up and down the sidewalk before Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and then at Percy, who was sitting on a shop's windowsill, a few feet away. "Bloody hell, it's cold," he muttered.

Ron nodded in agreement, stamping his feet as their breath fogged in the air. "Wish it'd snow again. Last night's is practically all melted at home."

"Hey," Harry said, pointing. Weasleys' shop door had just swung open. Hand in hand with Angelina, looking more clean-shaven and well put together than Harry had seen him in weeks, came George. He looked pale, and both he and Angelina had very red eyes, but they were both smiling nervously.

They approached Bill and Charlie. Percy, Ron, and Harry ran over to join them.

"Well, here he is," said Angelina, one arm around George's. "All nice and clean."

George elbowed her gently. He looked up at Percy, extending one hand; Harry had a sudden, fleeting memory of Fred performing the same gesture in the Room of Requirement. "I'm sorry, Perce. I didn't mean it. Forgive me?"

Percy hesitated for a moment. Then he took George's hand. "Happy Christmas." He yanked George into a tight hug that he could not escape. Harry distinctly saw Angelina turn and wipe her tears away.

"We should go," Harry said. "Your parents are going to get worried."

"Ange?" George asked, and she met his eyes, nodding.

"I'll come along," she promised.

"I want to get everyone's gifts together, though," George said. "Will you trust me to come a bit later?"

"You did your shopping for us, Georgie?" Charlie asked.

"Hardly," Angelina scoffed. "I've got the gifts at Alicia's house. We'll come to the Burrow as soon as we can." Everyone nodded, but almost automatically, they all looked to George.

"I promise," he said. He smiled, and Bill, Charlie, and Ron all gave joyful yells, burying him under hugs.

Harry shook his head in amazement. He looked at Angelina, who was beaming. "How's the arm?"

She looked at him. "A lot better, now."

"What did you say to him?" Harry asked, shaking his head. Angelina said nothing, and simply winked at him.

"Come on, boys, your mother's going to panic!" she shouted, shepherding the laughing Weasley boys towards the back of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry laughed, following them. Then George ducked under Angelina's arm, hanging back for a moment.

He approached Harry. "Look—"

"Don't worry about it," Harry interrupted. "I'm dating your sister. You have to give me grief. I'll just put it on the list."

George's expression was momentarily unreadable. Then he grinned widely, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Good. Hope you're ready for some serious examinations, Potter—it's not just anyone we let around Ginny."

Harry patted his back. "I know, mate." He pointed at Angelina. "She came back," he said.

George looked startled. He looked between Harry and Angelina's back; she was chatting animatedly to Ron, a few steps ahead. "Yeah," he said. "She did. Ron got her to do it."

Harry shook his head. "I wouldn't be sure about that."

George looked at him. Harry smiled. He was used to the missing ear now—but he was not used to this pensive, thoughtful George. He supposed that it would come with time.

"Thanks, Harry."

* * *

Charlie led the way into the house; Percy, Ron, Harry, and Bill followed him.

"Where have you been?" Darya asked him immediately. She sat at the kitchen table with Andromeda, who was bouncing Teddy on her lap.

"We had to get some shopping done," he muttered.

Darya frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Andromeda got up, carrying the baby away to join Harry, who was eating a roll by the counter. Charlie turned slightly and faced Darya. "We went and got my brother."

Darya lifted her eyebrows. "George?"

Charlie smiled at her. "Yeah. He's—well, we're going to let him surprise my mum, when we serve dinner. Where is she?"

"She is lying down," Darya told him. "Ginny is with her."

"Is she all right?" he asked.

"I think so," said Darya. "Your father seems to be happy. See?"

Charlie looked over to the kitchen. Dad and Fleur were laughing as they prepared the ham, which was wafting its fumes through the kitchen. "Okay," he said. "All right—that'll work."

Darya bit her lip. "Charlie," she said slowly, "I—I think George will recognize me."

Charlie stared at her. "What?"

"I went to his store," she whispered. "When I went back to Diagon Alley—it was stupid of me—"

"What?"

She sighed. "I thought—maybe I could talk to him…I just wanted to see if—"

"You wanted to bring him home?" Charlie asked, utterly stunned.

"Everyone was worried…I was being stupid—" said Darya. She blushed furiously.

"You're—you're amazing," he said, hugging her tightly. "Thank you."

Darya laughed. "I wanted you to be happy. I love your family," she said.

Charlie hugged her again. "Thank you."

"Happy Christmas," Darya said, kissing his cheek.

* * *

Molly sat on the sofa with her eyes closed, warm and comfortable. Ginny leaned on her breast as Molly stroked her hair.

"Mummy," Ginny murmured. "Mummy, do you want something to eat? Dad's got dinner ready."

Molly sighed, without opening her eyes. "Thank you, darling. Are the boys back?"

"I wouldn't mention Quidditch for a while—apparently Harry just lost to Charlie," Ginny laughed, and Molly smiled. The weight that was Ginny disappeared; Molly could hear her walking away, and struggled to open her eyes.

The sitting room was empty; she could hear the sounds of everyone in the kitchen, chattering as they served themselves dinner. There were far too many to squeeze in at the table, so they would be eating anywhere they could find space in the sitting room. Molly straightened her blanket, sitting up so as to make more room on the couch for everyone else. She picked up her wand and flicked it, raising the fire in the grate. It crackled warmly.

"Are you feeling better?" Andromeda asked. She was walking in with Teddy in one arm and a plate of food in her free hand.

"Much better," Molly lied.

Andromeda smiled and sat down beside her. "Oof—Teddy, darling—"

"Here, let me take him so you can have a moment to eat," Molly laughed. She took Teddy into her lap. "Oh, darling—what a sweetheart you are."

Teddy yawned hugely, reaching up one hand for the ends of Molly's hair.

"He doesn't see a lot of red hair," Andromeda said.

Molly squeezed him gently, and he burbled. "I forget how good it feels to have a baby to hug."

Andromeda's eyes looked a little distant. "I know," she said.

Molly patted her hand. More people were filtering into the sitting room. Ron, Hermione, Bill, and Fleur seated themselves on the spiral staircase, laughing and chattering; Darya and Charlie sat down on the hearth with Percy; Arthur came in and sat down in his chair, winking at Molly, who forced a smile for him.

She sighed heavily, holding Teddy close on her lap. Andromeda offered him a forkful of mashed potatoes, which he ate gratefully, beaming at her. Molly rubbed her forehead; she had a terrible headache, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. Even surrounded by all of these wonderful people, she had the terrible sensation of absence—Fred was on her mind, but George was stuck in her heart like a knife.

"Here, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry, holding a plate of food before her as Ginny placed a glass of pumpkin juice on the table beside her spot on the sofa.

"Thank you, Harry dear," she said, smiling at him. "You sit down with me and Ginny, won't you?"

"Sure," he grinned, as Ginny squeezed in beside Molly. She took Teddy from her mother.

"You eat, Mum," she said.

"Where's your plate, darling?" Molly asked.

"Harry and I can share," she said, turning bright pink. Molly shook her head.

"Can I have everyone's attention?" Arthur stood before his chair, holding up a glass of firewhisky. "I'd like to make a toast," he said. He looked first at Molly, who smiled faintly, and then at all of their children—and then at Harry, Hermione, Andromeda, and Darya. "This has been…well, it's been a year. There have been some really, really wonderful things," he said, nodding at Harry, who looked down. Molly reached out and touched his arm.

"And there have been some—well, less than wonderful things," Arthur continued, a quaver in his voice. "We lost friends—family—people we loved very much, and still love." A few sniffles sounded around the room. Andromeda reached for Molly's hand and held it. Arthur's eyes lingered on Teddy. "We've all been—been changed, permanently. But I think that the important thing we need to remember now is that—we're together, now. We're here, and—well, I can't speak for the rest of you—but I plan on staying here."

There was a rumble of gentle laughter around the room, but Molly had eyes only for Arthur. Out of the corner of her vision, she could see tears sliding down Ginny's cheeks as she hugged Teddy, and Hermione leaning on Ron, hiccupping silently. Fleur had hidden her face in Bill's sleeve as he gently rubbed her back. Arthur met Molly's gaze, and she saw tears in his eyes.

"I love you all—even if I've just met you," he teased Darya, and she laughed, wiping away a tear quickly. "I love you all very much, and—what an amazing Christmas gift, to get to be with you." He looked into Molly's eyes as he said the last word, and she gave a tiny sob.

Ginny tucked an arm around her, and Molly kissed her hair.

Arthur raised his glass, and across the room, everyone did the same. Molly stared at him, trying to communicate silently the pride and love she felt for him as she held up her glass.

"Happy Christmas, and a wonderful New Year to all of us."

"Happy Christmas," murmured the room.

"Happy Christmas."

Molly leapt to her feet, nearly upsetting her plate and glass—she knew that voice. She whirled around—

"_George!"_ Molly burst into tears, running forward and wrapping George tightly in her arms. "Oh, my baby—my baby—you're home! Oh, Georgie!"

"Hi, Mum," he murmured in her ear, as she smothered him with kisses. "How are you?"

"My baby," she whispered, feeling tears fall as she squeezed her eyes shut. She swayed on the spot, hugging him close. "Oh, Georgie…thank you, darling, thank you…"

"Don't thank me," he mumbled, looking down at the floor. "I don't deserve it."

"Angelina!" Ginny cried, and from the kitchen, Angelina Johnson appeared. She had one arm in a sling and she looked very nervous. Molly stared at her for almost a full minute.

"Oh, you wonderful girl," she burst out, and she seized Angelina in a tight hug. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Weasley," she replied, laughing and crying at once as Molly pulled away. She looked around at the boys, who were all looking sheepish.

"Quidditch, hm?" she demanded, wiping her cheeks. "I should've known when you took Percy with you."

Bill and Charlie roared with laughter, as everyone got to their feet and greeted George, hugging him, kissing Angelina's cheek, thanking her profusely—Molly refused to let go of her.

* * *

Hermione leaned on Ron's shoulder as they gazed from their perch on the spiral stairs onto the peaceful scene below. Mrs. Weasley sat with George and Angelina on either side of her rocking chair, while Mr. Weasley held Teddy in his lap. They were both soundly asleep. Harry and Andromeda were chatting quietly by the fire. Ginny leaned against Harry's knees, listening.

Bill and Fleur were stretched out side by side on the hearth, sleeping, and Percy played a game of chess with Charlie, who was getting help from Darya.

"I think that was the nicest thing you could've done for your mother, Ron," said Hermione quietly. "It's been a long time since I've seen her smile like that."

Ron shrugged, looking awkwardly uncomfortable. "It wasn't just me," he mumbled.

"Still," Hermione said, resting her head on his knee. "This is something we're all going to remember for a long time." Ron didn't say anything, and Hermione looked up at him. His eyes were full of tears as he stared down at his knees. "Ron?" she whispered.

He shook his head quickly, rubbing his nose hard. "Nothing. I just—I don't realize—never mind." He calmed himself and grinned at Hermione, who was not fooled.

"It's hard not to miss him, when we're all together like this," she said quietly. "It's all right."

Ron's chin trembled, and he kissed her forehead. "Happy Christmas, Hermione."

"Happy Christmas, Ron," she murmured.

A faint humming seemed to be coming from the sitting room below. Hermione peered down. Fleur had woken up, and she and Bill leaned against the hearth together. Her eyes were closed, but she was humming a soft tune. Bill chuckled and sang badly, _"We wish you a Merry Christmas—"_

"_We wish you a Merry Christmas,"_ sang Ginny, joining him immediately. She hopped up on her knees, grinning.

Others looked up, catching on. Hermione grabbed Ron's hand, grinning, and together, they called, _"We wish you a Merry Christmas—"_

"_And a happy New Year!"_

Hermione laughed hysterically, looking down at Harry; the sitting room, which moments before, had been so peaceful, was riotous and full of laughter and singing. Arthur startled awake, clutching Teddy as he looked around confusedly. Molly was laughing, trying to sing with Andromeda, as Angelina teased George, trying to make him chime in.

Angelina, Ginny, and Fleur were still singing the loudest. _"Good tidings we bring, to you and your kin! Good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year!"_

"_We wish you a Merry Christmas_—"

"_We wish you a Merry Christmas—_"

"_We wish you a Merry Christmas_—"

"_And a Happy New Year!"_


End file.
